I have thought about that sentence more than any other he ever said to me, and about the smallness he insisted on — not a grand test, not a fortune withheld to see who was worthy of it, but a glass of water.

He had chosen the humblest possible measure on purpose, I came to understand, because the humblest measure is the truest one.

Anyone will show up for a fortune; the promise of money summons people the way a porch light summons moths, and tells you nothing about their hearts.

But a glass of water, brought to a sick man who can do nothing for you in return, who cannot pay you or promote you or leave you anything in a will that you know about — a glass of water is love with the incentives stripped out.

It is what remains of a person’s regard for you once every reason to perform it has been removed.

Raymond had spent a lifetime in banking, surrounded by people who were very good at calculating what he could do for them, and he had learned, the hard way and then again the harder way, that the calculation runs behind almost every warmth offered to a wealthy man.