For seven years the deception was maintained, when one day the scandal could be hidden no longer; the parish rose, the Bishop interfered, and the unhappy invalid was removed to closer restraint. Martha for a while lived on her savings, such as they were, and assistance from the clergyman's friends, who knew how hard she had toiled to preserve his good name, and then Mrs. Pink's almshouses being set up in her neighbourhood, she entered that haven, and is now in security for the rest of her days. She is perfectly sane except for the obsession that it is her duty to write to the King, calling upon him to prohibit the sale of alcohol anywhere in England, and so save millions of homes. But although she is convinced that a letter sent to the King always gets to him and cannot fail of its purpose, the missive has never gone, for the simple reason that she cannot compose it to her satisfaction, being too little of a scholar, and she will not allow anyone else to write it for her. It is because of vicarious assistance in such matters that similar letters have not had the desired effect, and she will not prejudice her case in that way. Such is the life story of Martha Drax at No. 8. I came away, again wondering what Spanton would say of all this serenity and comfort. Foolish sentimentalism, probably. Wanton and anti-social waste of money to cosset these old, unproductive women. Let the back-numbers either perish or look after themselves. And so on. But to talk like that is to disregard human nature and the kindlier feelings. A state that deliberately refused the responsibilities of protecting and caring for its old might achieve miracles of scientific housing, profit-sharing, and so forth; but it would be fossilized at the core. Sentiment and emotion cannot be left out. CHAPTER XXXII IN WHICH I AT LAST BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH THE TOP-FLOOR-FRONT, AND HEAR HIS ROMANTIC STORY It was just as I was putting away my book, quite late, that Miss Laura knocked at the door to say that Mr. Carstairs, the gentleman on the top floor, who had been ill for some days, had asked if I would be so good as to pay him a short visit. This seemed to me odd, for beyond exchanging "good morning" now and then, we had never spoken; but it was not a request that I could disregard, and up I went. The old gentleman was in bed, and as he lay there, gaunt and grey, with his hollow cheeks and bright eyes and pointed beard, he was like nothing in the world but Don Quixote. With a courteous movement he motioned me to a chair, and then thanked me for having compassion on a stranger's whim. For a while after this there was silence, and I had an opportunity of noticing how bare was his room of all but necessities, although those seemed of the best. There were no pictures.