“A little cloud, a little sultriness in the air, is all that betrays the coming khemsin, that by and by shall overwhelm and destroy man and beast in its sandy darkness.  You have made one or two remarks lately that show little faith in human nature, and if you do not believe in human nature what is there left for you to believe in?  You said a moment ago that I was the first grateful person you had ever met.  Then the rest of humanity are all selfish, and worshippers of themselves, and altogether vile, since you yourself say, as I do, that ingratitude is the unpardonable sin; and God has made a world full of unpardonable sinners, and unless you include yourself in the exception you graciously make in my favour, no one but I shall be saved.  And yet you say also with me that God is good.  Do you deny that you are utterly inconsistent?”

“I may make you some concession in a few minutes, but I am not going to yield to such logic.  You have committed the fallacy of the undistributed middle term, if you care to know the proper name for it.  I did not say that all men, saving you, were ungrateful.  I said that, saving you, the persons I have met in my life have been ungrateful.  You ought to distinguish.”

“All I can say is, then, that you have had a very unfortunate experience of life,” retorted Isaacs warmly.

“I have,” said I, “but since you yield the technical point of logic, I will confess that I made the assertion hastily and overshot the mark.  I do not remember, however, to have met any one who felt so strongly on the point as you do.”

“Now you speak like a rational being,” said Isaacs, quite pacified.  “Extraordinary feelings are the result of unusual circumstances.  I was in such distress as rarely falls to the lot of an innocent man of fine temperament and good abilities.  I am now in a position of such wealth and prosperity as still more seldom are given to a man of my age and antecedents.  I remember that I obtained the first step on my road to fortune through the kindness of John Westonhaugh, though I could never learn his name, and I met him at last, as you saw, by an accident.  I call that accident a favour, and an opportunity bestowed on me by Allah, and the meeting has roused in me those feelings of thankfulness which, for want of an object upon which to show them, have been put away out of sight as a thing sacred for many years.  I am willing you should say that, were my present fortune less, my gratitude would be proportionately less felt—­it is very likely—­though the original gift remain the same, one rupee and no more.  You are entitled to think of any man as grateful in proportion to the gift, so long as you allow the gratitude at all.”  He made this speech in a perfectly natural and unconcerned way, as if he were contemplating the case of another person.

“Seriously, Isaacs, I would not do so for the world.  I believe you were as grateful twelve years ago, when you were poor, as you are now that you are rich.”  Isaacs was silent, but a look of great gentleness crossed his face.  There was at times something almost angelic in the perfect kindness of his eyes.