BARNABAS [_malevolently_] Good day to you. I have a question to put to you, if you don't mind. THE ARCHBISHOP [_looking curiously at him, jarred by his uncivil tone_] Certainly. What is it? BARNABAS. What is your definition of a thief? THE ARCHBISHOP. Rather an old-fashioned word, is it not? BARNABAS. It survives officially in my department. THE ARCHBISHOP. Our departments are full of survivals. Look at my tie! my apron! my boots! They are all mere survivals; yet it seems that without them I cannot be a proper Archbishop. BARNABAS. Indeed! Well, in my department the word thief survives, because in the community the thing thief survives. And a very despicable and dishonorable thing he is, too. THE ARCHBISHOP [_coolly_] I daresay. BARNABAS. In my department, sir, a thief is a person who lives longer than the statutory expectation of life entitles him to, and goes on drawing public money when, if he were an honest man, he would be dead. THE ARCHBISHOP. Then let me say, sir, that your department does not understand its own business. If you have miscalculated the duration of human life, that is not the fault of the persons whose longevity you have miscalculated. And if they continue to work and produce, they pay their way, even if they live two or three centuries. BARNABAS. I know nothing about their working and producing. That is not the business of my department. I am concerned with their expectation of life; and I say that no man has any right to go on living and drawing money when he ought to be dead. THE ARCHBISHOP. You do not comprehend the relation between income and production. BARNABAS. I understand my own department. THE ARCHBISHOP. That is not enough. Your department is part of a synthesis which embraces all the departments. BURGE-LUBIN. Synthesis! This is an intellectual difficulty. This is a job for Confucius. I heard him use that very word the other day; and I wondered what the devil he meant. [_Switching on_] Hallo! Put me through to the Chief Secretary. CONFUCIUS'S VOICE. You are speaking to him. BURGE-LUBIN. An intellectual difficulty, old man. Something we don't understand. Come and help us out. THE ARCHBISHOP. May I ask how the question has arisen? BARNABAS. Ah! You begin to smell a rat, do you? You thought yourself pretty safe. You-- BURGE-LUBIN. Steady, Barnabas. Dont be in a hurry. _Confucius enters._ THE ARCHBISHOP [_rising_] Good morning, Mr Chief Secretary. BURGE-LUBIN [_rising in instinctive imitation of the Archbishop_] Honor us by taking a seat, O sage. CONFUCIUS. Ceremony is needless. [_He bows to the company, and takes the chair at the foot of the table_]. _The President and the Archbishop resume their seats._ BURGE-LUBIN. We wish to put a case to you, Confucius. Suppose a man, instead of conforming to the official estimate of his expectation of life, were to live for more than two centuries and a half, would the Accountant General be justified in calling him a thief?