 subject of the paper had been, "How ought I to dispose of my money?" the reader professing to be a millionaire on the point of death, inclined to bequeath her fortune for the foundation of local art galleries, but open to conviction from other sources.  The various parts had been assigned beforehand, and some of the speeches were amusing.  The hostess assumed the ungrateful role of "the millionaire's eldest son," and implored her expiring parent not to dislocate Society by allowing such vast sums to pass out of the family.  Money was the fruit of self-denial, and the second generation had a right to profit by the self-denial of the first.  What right had "Mr. Bast" to profit?  The National Gallery was good enough for the likes of him.  After property had had its say--a saying that is necessarily ungracious--the various philanthropists stepped forward.  Something must be done for "Mr. Bast": his conditions must be improved without impairing his independence; he must have a free library, or free tennis-courts; his rent must be paid in such a way that he did not know it was being paid; it must be made worth his while to join the Territorials; he must be forcibly parted from his uninspiring wife, the money going to her as compensation; he must be assigned a Twin Star, some member of the leisured classes who would watch over him ceaselessly (groans from Helen); he must be given food but no clothes, clothes but no food, a third-return ticket to Venice, without either food or clothes when he arrived there.  In short, he might be given anything and everything so long as it was not the money itself.
    And here Margaret interrupted.
    "Order, order, Miss Schlegel!" said the reader of the paper.  "You are here, I understand, to advise me in the interests of the Society for the Preservation of Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty.  I cannot have you speaking out of your role.  It makes my poor head go round, and I think you forget that I am very ill."
    "Your head won't go round if only you'll listen to my argument," said Margaret.  "Why not give him the money itself.  You're supposed to have about thirty thousand a year."
    "Have I?  I thought I had a million."
    "Wasn't a million your capital?  Dear me!  we ought to have settled that.  Still, it doesn't matter
