“Read it out in church,” Langmaid suggested. “It wouldn't sound pretty, Wallis, to be advertised in the post on Monday morning as owning that kind of a hotel.”
“Oh, he's a gentleman,” said Mr. Plimpton, “he wouldn't do anything as low as that!”
“But if he's become a socialist?” objected Langmaid.
“He wouldn't do it,” his friend reiterated, none too confidently. “I shouldn't be surprised if he made me resign from the vestry and forced me to sell my interest. It nets me five thousand a year.”
“What is the place?” Langmaid asked sympathetically, “Harrod's?”
Mr. Plimpton nodded.
“Not that I am a patron,” the lawyer explained somewhat hastily. “But I've seen the building, going home.”
“It looks to me as if it would burn down some day, Wallis.”
“I wish it would,” said Mr. Plimpton.
“If it's any comfort to you—to us,” Langmaid went on, after a moment, “Eldon Parr owns the whole block above Thirteenth, on the south side—bought it three years ago. He thinks the business section will grow that way.”