The woman sat for a few moments in silence, watching him. “Didn’t he have any when he came here?” she asked.
“Not very much,” said he.
“Because,” she went on, “if he didn’t, he certainly managed it very cleverly—we all thought he had.”
Again there was a pause; then suddenly Mrs. Winnie said: “Do you know, you feel differently about money from the way we do in New York. Do you realize it?”
“I’m not sure,” said he. “How do you mean?”
“You look at it in an old-fashioned sort of way—a person has to earn it—it’s a sign of something he’s done. It came to me just now, all in a flash—we don’t feel that way about money. We haven’t any of us earned ours; we’ve just got it. And it never occurs to us to expect other people to earn it—all we want to know is if they have it.”
Montague did not tell his companion how very profound a remark he considered that; he was afraid it would not be delicate to agree with her. He had heard a story of a negro occupant of the “mourners’ bench,” who was voluble in confession of his sins, but took exception to the fervour with which the congregation said “Amen!”
“The Evanses used to be a lot funnier than they are now,” continued Mrs. Winnie, after a while. “When they came here last year, they were really frightful. They had an English chap for social secretary—a younger son of some broken-down old family. My brother knew a man who had been one of their intimates in the West, and he said it was perfectly excruciating—this fellow used to sit at the table and give orders to the whole crowd: ‘Your ice-cream fork should be at your right hand, Miss Mary.—One never asks for more soup, Master Robert.—And Miss Anna, always move your soup-spoon from you—that’s better!’”
“I fancy I shall feel sorry for them,” said Montague.
“Oh, you needn’t,” said the other, promptly. “They’ll get what they want.”