‘Generosity.’
‘Generosity?’
‘Yes, sir. You see he gets all sorts of schemes into his head for the
relief of suffering of all kinds; and his friends, fearing he might
make ducks and drakes of his money, have put him under the care of our
governor.’
‘Is he wealthy?’
‘Very.’
‘Are his friends quite disinterested?’
‘Well, I don’t know. But at anyrate they are quite right. He might fall
into the hands of unprincipled people, who would help out his schemes
to further their own.’
‘What is his latest plan?’
‘Well, sir, his last idea was, that ambitious people who had failed
in their aims—such as authors whose books were roughly handled by the
critics, artists whose works did not meet with the appreciation they
expected, actors whose genius was not universally recognised, and
suchlike—were a great bore to society, and in their turn were inclined
to shun the world; so he proposed building a retreat where all such
could retire to seclusion—a kind of Agapemone, you see, sir.’
‘If he had found a scanty population for his rural settlement, it would
nevertheless not be for the lack of such people.’
‘Just so, sir.’
‘Do you consider his a hopeless case?’
‘I fear so, sir. He’s one of the quiet sort, you see. More violent
cases are often easier to deal with. Our governor turned out a rare
wild one quite cured the other day.’
‘What was his treatment?’
‘Letting him have his own way. It’s part of our governor’s system; but
it was rather risky in this case.’