"But—Angela," the other interrupted, "it is no business of yours. Naturally, wages are regulated by supply and——"
"No, my dear. That is political economy. I prefer the good old English plan. If I employ a man and he works faithfully, I should like that man to feel that he grows every day worth to me more than his marketable value."
Constance was silenced.
"Then, beside the brewery," Angela went on, "there is an unconscionable sum of money in the funds."
"There, at least," said her friend, "you need feel no scruple of conscience."
"But indeed I do; for how do I know that it is right to keep all this money idle! A hundred pounds saved and put into the funds mean three pounds a year. It is like a perennial stream flowing from a hidden reservoir in the hillside. But this stream, in my case, does no good at all. It neither fertilizes the soil nor is it drunk by man or beast, nor does it turn mills, nor is it a beautiful thing to look upon, nor does its silver current flow by banks of flowers or fall in cascades. It all runs away, and makes another reservoir in another hillside. My dear, it is a stream of compound interest, which is constantly getting deeper and broader and stronger, and yet is never of the least use, and turns no wheels. Now, what am I to do with this money?"
"Endow Newnham; there, at least, is something practical."
"I will found some scholarships, if you please, later on, when you have made your own work felt. Again, there are my houses in the East End."
"Sell them."
"That is only to shift the responsibility. My dear, I have streets of houses. They all lie about Whitechapel way. My grandfather, John Messenger, bought houses, I believe, just as other people buy apples, by the peck, or some larger measure, a reduction being made on taking a quantity. There they are, and mostly inhabited."