The Collected Stories of Louis Auchincloss by Louis Auchincloss

interest in his will. “Perhaps some charity might interest you?” he suggested cautiously. “Or a foundation? I understand they do considerable spending.”
    The Colonel shrugged. “Only way to keep the money out of the hands of those rascals in Washington, I suppose. Republicans, Democrats—they’re all alike. Grab, grab.” He nodded decisively. “All right, young man. Make me a foundation.”
    Rutherford scratched his head. “What sort of a foundation, sir?”
    â€œWhat sort? Don’t they have to be for world peace or some damn-fool thing? Isn’t that the tax angle?”
    â€œWell, not altogether,” Rutherford said, repressing a smile. “Your foundation could be a medical one, for example. Research. Grants to hospitals. That sort of thing.”
    â€œGood. Make me a medical foundation. But, mind you, I’m no Rockefeller or Carnegie. We’re not talking about more than twelve or fifteen million.”
    Rutherford’s head swam. “What—what about your board?” he stammered. “The board of this foundation. Who would you want on that?”
    The Colonel looked down at the floor a moment, his lips pursed. When he looked up, he smiled charmingly. “Well, what about you, young man? You seem like a competent fellow. I’d be glad to have you as chairman.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œWhy not? And pick your own board. If I want a man to do a job, I believe in letting him do it his own way.”
    Rutherford’s heart gradually sank. One simply didn’t walk in off the street and give one’s fortune to a total stranger—not if one was sane. It was like the day, as a child at his grandmother’s table, when she suddenly gave him a gold saltcellar in the form of a naked mermaid with a rounded, smooth figure that he had loved to stroke, only to be told by his mother that it was all in fun, that “Granny didn’t mean it.” It had been his introduction to senility. Projects like the Colonel’s, he had heard, were common in Wall Street. It was a natural place for the demented to live out their fantasies. Nevertheless, as the old Colonel’s imagined gold dissolved like Valhalla, he felt cheated and bitter. Abruptly, he stood up. “It’s a most interesting scheme, Colonel,” he said dryly. “I’d like a few days to think it over, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you leave me your name and address, and I can call you?”
    The Colonel seemed surprised. “You mean that’s all? For now?”
    â€œIf you please, sir, I’m afraid I have an appointment.”
    After the old man had placed his card on the desk, Rutherford relentlessly ushered him out to the foyer, where he waited until the elevator doors had safely closed between them. Returning, he told the receptionist that he would not be “in” again to Colonel Hubert.
    That night, Rutherford tried to salvage what he could out of his disappointment by making a good story of it to his wife as she sat knitting in the living room of their apartment. Phyllis Tower was one of those plain, tall, angular women who are apt to be tense and sharp before marriage and almost stonily contented thereafter. It never seemed to occur to her that she didn’t have everything in the world that a well-brought-up girl could possibly want. Limited, unrapturous, but of an even disposition, she made of New York a respectable small town and believed completely that her husband had inherited an excellent law practice.
    She followed his story without any particular show of interest. “Hubert,” she repeated when he had finished. “You don’t suppose it was old Colonel Bill Hubert, do you? He’s not really mad, you know. Eccentric, but not mad.”
    Rutherford felt his heart sink for the second time as he thought of the card left on his desk—“William Lyon Hubert.” He watched her placid knitting