“I mean every sensible man who is not bound by his cloth to talk cant—no offence; I use the word technically—you won’t find one such out of a thousand to deny that riches are the best gift of heaven, the one that can buy every other worth having—love and devotion into the bargain.”
“What rank heresy you are propounding, my dear sir!” exclaimed Sir Simon, taking a pinch from his enamelled snuff-box, and passing it on. “You will not find one sane man in a thousand to agree with you!”
“Won’t I though? What do you say, count?”
“I agree with you, monsieur,” said Raymond with a certain asperity; “money can purchase most things worth having, but I deny that it can always pay for them.”
“Ha! there we have the sophist again. It can buy, and yet it can’t pay. Pray explain!”
“What do you mean, Raymond?” said Sir Simon, darting a curious, puzzled look at his friend.
“It is very simple. I mean that money may sometimes enable us to confer an obligation which no money can repay. We may, for instance, do a service or avert a sorrow by means of a sum of money, and thus purchase love and gratitude—things which Mr. Plover has included in those worth having, and which money cannot pay for, though it may be the means of buying them.” The look that accompanied the answer said more to Sir Simon than the words conveyed to any one else. He averted his eyes quickly, and was all at once horrified to discover several empty glasses round the table. They were at dessert now.
“Charlton, have you tried that Madeira? Help yourself again, and pass it on here, will you? I shall have to play Ganymede, and go round pouring out the nectar to you like so many gods, if you don’t bestir yourselves.”
And then there was a clinking of glasses, as the amber and ruby liquid was poured from many a curious flagon into the glistening crystal cups.
“Talking of gods, that’s a god’s eye that you see there on Plover’s finger,” observed Mr. Charlton, whose azure gem was quite eclipsed by the flashing jewel that had suggested M. de la Bourbonais’ illustration. “It was set in the forehead of an Indian idol. Just let Sir Simon look at it; he’s a judge of precious stones,” said the young man, who felt that his feeble personality gained something from the proximity of so big a personage, and was anxious to show him off. The latter complacently drew the ring from his finger and tossed it over to his host. It was a large white diamond of the purest water, without the shadow of a flaw.