“Of course,” said Maxwell Hartington, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the ball of his thumb into one eye. “Of course—nobody ever enforces these _dum casta_ clauses. There isn’t anyone to enforce them. Ever.”—He paused and then went on, speaking apparently to the array of black tin boxes in the dingy fixtures before him. “Who’s going to watch you? That’s what I always ask in these cases. Unless the lady goes and does things right under the noses of these trustees they aren’t going to bother. Even Sir Isaac I suppose hasn’t provided funds for a private detective. Eh? You said something?” “Nothing,” said Mr. Brumley. “Well, why should they start a perfectly rotten action like that,” continued Maxwell Hartington, now addressing himself very earnestly to his client, “when they’ve only got to keep quiet and do their job and be comfortable. In these matters, Brumley, as in most matters affecting the relations of men and women, people can do absolutely what they like nowadays, absolutely, unless there’s someone about ready to make a row. Then they can’t do anything. It hardly matters if they don’t do anything. A row’s a row and damned disgraceful. If there isn’t a row, nothing’s disgraceful. Of course all these laws and regulations and institutions and arrangements are just ways of putting people at the mercy of blackmailers and jealous and violent persons. One’s only got to be a lawyer for a bit to realize that. Still that’s not _our_ business. That’s psychology. If there aren’t any jealous and violent persons about, well, then no ordinary decent person is going to worry what you do. No decent person ever does. So far as I can gather the only barbarian in this case is the testator—now in Kensal Green. With additional precautions I suppose in the way of an artistic but thoroughly massive monument presently to be added——” “He’d—turn in his grave.” “Let him. No trustees are obliged to take action on _that_. I don’t suppose they’d know if he did. I’ve never known a trustee bother yet about post-mortem movements of any sort. If they did, we’d all be having Prayers for the Dead. Fancy having to consider the subsequent reflections of the testator!” “Well anyhow,” said Mr. Brumley, after a little pause, “such a breach, such a proceeding is out of the question—absolutely out of the question. It’s unthinkable.” “Then why did you come here to ask me about it?” demanded Maxwell Hartington, beginning to rub the other eye in an audible and unpleasant manner. §5