“Father said, ‘There’s a fortune there.’ And Mother said, ‘Oh, Dally, it’s as if it was left in trust for poor Union Town.’” When the gardener next met Mr. Tring, he discovered how entirely sufficient for two are the opinions of one. “Of course I’m awfully lucky, in a way,” said Mr. Tring. “It’s a big inheritance, and hardly damaged at all by the earthquake. But at present, of course, it’s all responsibility and no returns. I feel as if it’s sort of left me in trust for Union Town.” “That’s one way of looking at it,” said Courtesy—surely the least witty comment ever invented. “I don’t agree with you at all,” said Mrs. Rust, who now made this remark mechanically in any pause in the conversation. “You consider that Mr. Tring should pile up a big bill against the British Government?” suggested the gardener. “Stuff and nonsense,” said Mrs. Rust. “I consider the niggers can eat—mangoes.” “I sometimes wonder,” said the gardener, “whether one has a duty to oneself. One feels as if one has, but I always—in theory—distrust a duty that pays.” “Certainly one has a duty to oneself,” said Courtesy. “Duty begins at home. That’s in the Bible, isn’t it?” “Most of the texts tell you your only duty is to the man next door,” said Mr. Tring, blushing. “I entirely disagree with you,” said Mrs. Rust. Soon after this discussion Mr. Tring, inspired by his wife, produced a plan for the benefit of the gardener. “When this business is over we shall—I mean I shall be a rich man and a busy man. I need somebody young around. I’d like fine to buy your youth (his wife’s words). What about being my secretary for the present? It might give you a start in Island business.” “This is not a time for paid work,” said the gardener, “with half the money on the Island gone to dust.” “I take your meaning,” said Mr. Tring. “But in my opinion the time’s all right. Good work’s good work, whether it’s honorary or not. I never liked the idea that there’s something heroic in refusing money, making out that there’s something mean in accepting it. If you help you help, and the help’s none the worse if it makes you self-supporting.” The word “self-supporting” was a sharp and accusing word to the gardener. Most of us privately possess certain words that search out the tender parts in our spiritual anatomy. The words “absolute impossibility,” for instance, angered the suffragette to militant protest; the mention of “narrow-mindedness” ruffled the priest’s sensibilities; as for me, the expression “physical disability” hurts me like a knife. It may or may not be out of place to add that the effect on Courtesy—that practical girl—of an allusion to “banana fritters” was to make her feel sick. You may know people better by their weaknesses than by their strength. The word self-supporting, therefore, goaded the gardener into accepting Mr. Tring’s offer.