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Prothero listened with an unamiable expression.
"What would you do, Prothero, if you found yourself saddled with
some thousands a year?"
"Godfathers don't grow in Brixton," said Prothero concisely.
"Well, what am I to do, Prothero?"
"Does all THIS belong to you?"
"No, this is my mother's."
"Godfather too?"
"I've not thought. . . . I suppose so. Or her own."
Prothero meditated.
"THIS life," he said at last, "this large expensiveness-- . . ."
He left his criticism unfinished.
"I agree. It suits my mother somehow. I can't understand her
living in any other way. But--for me. . . ."
"What can one do with several thousands a year?"
Prothero's interest in this question presently swamped his petty
personal resentments. "I suppose," he said, "one might have rather
a lark with money like that. One would be free to go anywhere. To
set all sorts of things going. . . . It's clear you can't sell all
you have and give it to the poor. That is pauperization nowadays.
You might run a tremendously revolutionary paper. A real upsetting
paper.


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