“In any other country there would have been a riot,” murmured O’Rane, when I described the scene.
“There will be all the riots you can use when this is over. . . . You’ve been lying very low the last few months, Raney.”
“I’ve been thinking. All Lancing’s money . . .”
“And ‘the good of humanity’?”
“Yes. I believe . . . I’ve decided . . . to save humanity . . . from ever touching it,” he answered slowly.
At the time he would say no more; and we spent the afternoon strolling along one embankment and back by the other. In the course of our walk, we had a good view of St. Thomas’ Hospital, if he wished to heal the sick, and of the Tate Gallery, if he cared to foster the fine arts; south of the river we walked through streets that were more sordidly grimed with poverty than any I wish to see again. There were, I pointed out, inequalities of wealth for a millionaire to adjust.
“But is all this for the good of humanity?,” O’Rane asked, breaking silence for the first time as we pressed into his house. The side-door of The Sanctuary was like the out-patients’ entrance to a hospital; his writing-table was submerged in appeals to his charity. “You can begin by adjusting the difference between yourself and those people outside.”
There was a sneer in his tone that roused my natural perversity. I distributed a handful of small change and returned to find him smiling.
“What did you give them?,” he asked.
“About a sovereign. Whether they’re deserving cases . . .”