“You can call it what you please. It is the only condition of things which would accompany pure civilisation. When, however, I speak of half a crown a day,” he pursues, “I use a figure of speech! Of course, in a purely free world there would be no coined or printed money, there would be only barter.” “Barter!” echoes Marlow. “I should carry two of my Berkshire pigs, one under each arm, and exchange them with you for a thousand copies of your _Age to Come_.” “I think barter would be inconvenient, Mr. Bertram,” says Cicely Seymour, doubtfully. “And what should I barter? I can’t make anything. I should have to cut off my hair and wait a year till it grew again.” Every one laughs, and Bertram even relaxes his gravity. “I fear, Miss Seymour, that Solon’s self would give you all you wished for a single smile!” At that moment a small boy comes into the room, out of breath, grinning, with several oblong pieces of printed paper in his hand; he pushes his way unconcerned between the ladies and gentlemen, and thrusts the papers at Bertram. “Here, mister, you must tone these here down; manager says as Fanshawe says as the British Public wouldn’t never stand them pars. he’s marked at no time; and manager says as I was to tell you Public is extra nervous now cos o’ that bomb at Tooting.” Bertram takes the sheets in ill humour, and tears them across. “Mr. Fanshawe is well aware that I never correct and I never suppress. I forbid the production of the article in a mutilated state.” He hands the pieces to the boy. “Bid Mr. Fanshawe return me my original copy.” The boy looks frightened. “Who’ll pay for this here settin’-up, sir, please, if proof ain’t to be used?” “Did you say Fanshawe?” says Lord Southwold. “Do you mean the great Fanshawe of the _Torch_? Can anything be possibly too strong for him?” “Oh, my dear Wilfred! do let us hear what you can have said? It must be something terrific!” says the old duke, who rather likes subversive opinions, considering philosophically that he will be in his grave before they can possibly be put into practice. “What ’m I to tell the manager about payin’ for the settin’-up of this here, if type’s to be broke up, sir?” asks the boy, with dogged persistence. “Go out of the room, you impudent little rascal!” says Bertram, in extreme irritation. “Critchett! turn that boy out!” Marlow gets up and offers the boy a plate of pound cake. “You are not civil to your sooty Mercury, Bertram. He offers you at this moment the most opportune illustration of your theories. He comes on an errand of the intellect, and if a somewhat soiled messenger, he should nevertheless be treated with the respect due to a guardian of literary purity and public morality. Sweet imp! refresh your inner man!” The boy stuffs his mouth with cake and grins. “Are these chambers mine or yours, Lord Marlow?” asks Bertram. “Both mine and yours, or neither yours or mine. There is no such thing as exclusive possession. You have just told us so.”