Also this grave, conscientious proposition had its humorous side.

It was so British.

It reminded me of the story of Swift, who, when Gay and Pope visited him and refused to sup, totted up the cost of the meal and insisted on their accepting half-a-crown apiece.

It reminded me too of the rugged old Lancashire commercial blood that was in him--blood that only shewed itself on the rarest and greatest of occasions--the blood of his grandfather, the Manchester cotton-spinner, who founded the fortunes of his house.

Sir Anthony knew less about cotton than he did about ballistics and had never sat at a desk in a business office for an hour in his life; but now and again the inherited instinct to put high impulses on a scrupulously honest commercial basis asserted itself in the quaintest of fashions.
"There's some sense in what he says, Edith," remarked Sir Anthony.
"It's only vanity that prompted us to ear-mark this sum for something special." "Vanity!" cried Lady Fenimore.