I saw that we were in a vicious
circle. The paper, to sell well, had to be made more and more
detestable and disgraceful. At first I rebelled--but somehow--I
can't tell you how it was--after that first concession the ground
seemed to give under me: with every struggle I sank deeper. And
then--then Alan was born. He was such a delicate baby that there was
very little hope of saving him. But money did it--the money from the
paper. I took him abroad to see the best physicians--I took him to a
warm climate every winter. In hot weather the doctors recommended
sea air, and we had a yacht and cruised every summer. I owed his
life to the _Radiator_. And when he began to grow stronger the habit
was formed--the habit of luxury. He could not get on without the
things he had always been used to. He pined in bad air; he drooped
under monotony and discomfort; he throve on variety, amusement,
travel, every kind of novelty and excitement. And all I wanted for
him his inexhaustible foster-mother was there to give!
"My husband said nothing, but he must have seen how things were
going. There was no more talk of giving up the _Radiator_. He never
reproached me with my inconsistency, but I thought he must despise
me, and the thought made me reckless. I determined to ignore the
paper altogether--to take what it gave as though I didn't know where
it came from. And to excuse this I invented the theory that one may,
so to speak, purify money by putting it to good uses.
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