“It is not so simple as that, sir. To the majority of these persons that day will never come, and many of them know it--these are called clerks; to some amongst the others, even, it will not come--these will be called bankrupts; to the rest it will come, and they will live at Wimblehurst and other islands of the blessed, when they have become so accustomed to making money that to cease making it will be equivalent to boredom, if not torture, or when they are so old that they can but spend it in trying to modify the disabilities of age.” “What price joy, then?” said the Angel, raising his eyebrows. “For that, I fancy, is the expression you use?” “I perceive, sir,” answered his dragoman, “that you have not yet regained your understanding of the human being, and especially of the breed which inhabits this country. Illusion is what we are after. Without our illusions we might just as well be angels or Frenchmen, who pursue at all events to some extent the sordid reality known as ‘_le plaisir_,’ or enjoyment of life. In pursuit of illusion we go on making money and furrows in our brows, for the process is wearing. I speak, of course, of the bourgeoisie or Patriotic classes; for the practice of the Laborious is different, though their illusions are the same.” “How?” asked the Angel briefly. “Why, sir, both hold the illusion that they will one day be joyful through the possession of money; but whereas the Patriotic expect to make it through the labour of the Laborious, the Laborious expect to make it through the labour of the Patriotic.” “Ha, ha!” said the Angel. “Angels may laugh,” replied his dragoman, “but it is a matter to make men weep.” “You know your own business best,” said the Angel, “I suppose.” “Ah! sir, if we did, how pleasant it would be. It is frequently my fate to study the countenances and figures of the population, and I find the joy which the pursuit of illusion brings them is insufficient to counteract the confined, monotonous, and worried character of their lives.” “They are certainly very plain,” said the Angel. “They are,” sighed his dragoman, “and getting plainer every day. Take for instance that one,” and he pointed to a gentleman going up the steps. “Mark how he is built. The top of his grizzled head is narrow, the bottom of it broad. His body is short and thick and square; his legs even thicker, and his feet turn out too much; the general effect is almost pyramidal. Again, take this one,” and he indicated a gentleman coming down the steps, “you could thread his legs and body through a needle’s eye, but his head would defy you. Mark his boiled eyes, his flashing spectacles, and the absence of all hair. Disproportion, sir, has become endemic.” “Can this not be corrected?” asked the Angel.