Gilead, the most disinterested of utilitarians, had no sympathy with that order of State socialism which would deprive all personal effort of its motive and initiative by illegalising private Capital. On the contrary, he perceived in individual wealth the driving-wheels to an immense multitude of lesser parts, which, without that stimulus, would move sluggishly or not at all. Theoretic equality was no doubt a beautiful vision, only, as long as man should go lacking the eight beatitudes, he did not believe it a practical one. Disorder was the order of the human race, and that being so, no monotonous perfection, once attained, would long be suffered in peace. It was the way of the world, which builds on change and destruction, and will always of choice prefer the excitement of a picturesque and dangerous situation to the security of a tame one. Now, while exhibiting in himself as complete a justification of capital as the world could afford, Gilead had by no means any qualms about spending his money exactly as he pleased. He was a young man of cultivated and artistic tastes, and these tastes he did not hesitate to indulge liberally. He had taken a set of rooms in the Albany, and was much interested in their equipment. On a certain occasion he spent three whole days hunting Japanese colour prints with an art expert, whom he much employed, without once going near the Agency. But on the fourth he recovered the thread of his duties. Herbert Nestle, having as usual placed a copy of the _Daily Post_ before his principal, stood by to await his comments. One soon followed, à propos the following advertisement, which Gilead read out aloud:-- “_Young lady urgently in need of financial assistance to avert ruin. Every enquiry courted. No securities, but will repay honourably by installments. Address_ 023597 _Daily Post_.” “I think,” said Gilead, “I shall make this my personal affair.” He looked across at Miss Halifax, who, conscious of the implied challenge, answered evenly, but with a slight flush on her beautiful cheek:-- “Losses at bridge, probably, or motor fever. Granting that, it sounds plausible, Mr Balm.” She was by this time an experienced and perspicacious Gileadite. “Why, I think so too,” said her employer. “The little bait,” she ventured, “is the only questionable part.” “Bait? What bait?” “She might have omitted the _young_, you see,” said the amanuensis. “People may construe it into an invitation to a personal interview.” “Well, what harm, then?”