"Lucky for her, under the
circumstances, that she died young."
He closed the oaken door in front of the picture, and locked it.
"I should like to see the armory," he said; "but I really forget--let
me see, it is at the end of the long gallery, isn't it?"
She led him there without a word. She was getting a little afraid of
him. They inspected the library and wandered back into the picture
gallery. It was she, now, who was silent. She had shown him all her
favorite treasures without being able to evoke a single spark of
enthusiasm.
"Once," she remarked, "we all had a terrible fright. We were told that
everything was going to be sold."
He nodded.
"I did think of it," he admitted; "but there seemed to be no hurry.
All these things are growing into money year by year. Some day I shall
send everything to Christie's."
She looked at him in horror.
"You cannot--oh, you cannot mean it?" she cried.
"Why not? They are no use to me."
"No use?" she faltered.
"Not a bit. I don't suppose I shall see them again for many years. And
the money--well, one can use that."
"But I thought--that you were rich?" she faltered.
"So I am," he answered, "and yet I go on making more and more, and I
shall go on. Money is the whip with which its possessor can scourge
humanity. It is with money that I deal out my--forgive me, I forgot
that I was talking aloud, and to a child," he wound up suddenly.
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