Wint is wry and wise and above all disciplined, and he can't see things returning to a gentler life. "Sugar, bananas and bauxite are all down," he says. "Everyone wants more for doing less. That's not going to change."
He laments the decline into materialism because it's a disease that he has a natural immunity to. "I never had any money and don't expect to have any," he says. "In that respect there is a distinct difference between mine and the current generation. Today, running, say, can make you well off. In my era it was the thing that taught you about the limits of money. It lifted you to heights and rewards money could never buy."
The little office is nearly dark and the hour is over. Wint sits in thoughtful silence. There is a muted thumping of domestic activity throughout the house. "Rural society is still good, though," he says. "I have 80- and 90-year-olds who come in here and still curtsy when they say, 'Thank you, Dr. Wint.' I love the old pleasantries."
Wint suddenly seems to the visitor the conscience of Jamaica, or if not quite that, a representative of the values that have allowed its sons to travel off to their continuing successes. Yet he will be left here in the interior, in this case the opposite of a heart of darkness, more and more to be passed by.
He shows his visitor out. "Listen to that," he says.
The new night is velvet, and children are running on the yard's firm grass, laughing.