On the day of the funeral procession I received an unexpected call from O’Rane, white-faced and enigmatic. In all the years I had known him I doubt if we had talked of Ireland a dozen times; but this day stirred passions older than any he could remember, and I felt that the taut, bare-headed figure who gripped my arm was saluting McSwiney’s coffin in the name of his father, “O’Rane the liberator”. The Irish of London were present in thousands; but the English watched or followed in tens of thousands. Some, I well believe, came to salve a restless conscience; some in homage to a brave man; most to gratify an idle curiosity. The republican colours fluttered unfamiliarly in English faces; the way was lined with English police. “In any other country there would have been a riot,” murmured O’Rane, when I described the scene. “There will be all the riots you can use when this is over. . . . You’ve been lying very low the last few months, Raney.” “I’ve been thinking. All Lancing’s money . . .” “And ‘the good of humanity’?” “Yes. I believe . . . I’ve decided . . . to save humanity . . . from ever touching it,” he answered slowly. At the time he would say no more; and we spent the afternoon strolling along one embankment and back by the other. In the course of our walk, we had a good view of St. Thomas’ Hospital, if he wished to heal the sick, and of the Tate Gallery, if he cared to foster the fine arts; south of the river we walked through streets that were more sordidly grimed with poverty than any I wish to see again. There were, I pointed out, inequalities of wealth for a millionaire to adjust. “But is all this for the good of humanity?,” O’Rane asked, breaking silence for the first time as we pressed into his house. The side-door of The Sanctuary was like the out-patients’ entrance to a hospital; his writing-table was submerged in appeals to his charity. “You can begin by adjusting the difference between yourself and those people outside.” There was a sneer in his tone that roused my natural perversity. I distributed a handful of small change and returned to find him smiling. “What did you give them?,” he asked. “About a sovereign. Whether they’re deserving cases . . .” “They’re more deserving than you, George. And, if I’d given Lancing money, I should have been handing _you_ a sovereign. That’s my difficulty. Every time I give to a hospital or a gallery, I’m relieving prosperous people like you of your responsibilities. If the material good is outweighed by the spiritual harm . . .” He broke off to stalk up and down the darkening library with shoulders hunched and head thrust forward. “There’s still plenty of wealth in the world. Places like the Turf and Stage stink of it. And, if people want things badly enough, they’ll pay for them. If London had a smallpox epidemic, we should press money on our neighbours to get them vaccinated.”