"We all hate work," he said, repeating his favorite dictum, "I don't suppose there is one man in a thousand who would do another day's work unless he were compelled. The success of Socialism in our time is the belief that it will glorify idleness and make it real. The agitators themselves never work. They have learned the rich men's secret--I have heard them preaching the dignity of labor a hundred times, but I never yet saw one wheeling a barrow. The poor fellows who listen to them think that you have only got to pass a few acts of Parliament to be happy forever after. I pity them, but how are you to teach them that the present state of things is just--and if it is not just, why should you wish it to last?" Gessner could answer that. A rich man himself, all that concerned the new doctrines was of the profoundest interest to him. "The present state of things is the only state of things--in the bulk," he said; "it is as old as the world and will go on as long as the world. We grumble at our rich men, but those who have amassed their own fortunes are properly the nation's bankers. Consider what a sudden gift of money would mean to the working-men of England to-day--drunkenness, crime, debauchery. You can legislate to improve the conditions of their lives, but to give them creative brains is beyond all legislation. And I will tell you this--that once you have passed any considerable socialistic legislation for this kingdom of Great Britain, you have decided her destiny. She will in twenty years be in the position of Holland--a country that was but never will be again." No one disputed the proposition, for no one thoroughly understood it. Alban had not the courage to debate his pet theorems at such a time, and the parson was too intent upon denouncing the national want of seriousness to enter upon such abstruse questions as the banker would willingly have discussed. So they fell back upon athletics again, and were busy with football and cricket until the time came for Anna to withdraw and leave them to their cigars. Silas Geary, quickly imitating her, waited but for a glass of port before he made his excuses and departed, as he said, upon a "parochial necessity." "We will go to the Winter Garden," Gessner said to Alban when they were alone--"I will see that Fellows takes our coffee there. Bring some cigarettes, Alban--I wish to have a little private talk with you." Alban assented willingly, for he was glad of this opportunity to say much that he had desired to say for some days past. The night had turned very hot and close, but the glass roof of the Winter Garden stood open and they sat there almost as in the open air, the great palms and shrubs all about them and many lights glowing cunningly amid the giant leaves. As earlier in the evening, so now Gessner was in the best of spirits, laughing at every trivial circumstance and compelling his guest to see how kindly was his desposition toward him.