“I? Never! I have blamed you for spending more than your allowance, that is all.” Alistair shook his head. “You don’t see it, of course. But the whole life of a man like you is a reproach to one like me. You blame me for buying things that you would not blame a rich man for buying. It is a crime on my part to drive a motor; it is no crime on yours. And you go much farther than that, because you tell me, in effect, that I ought to be rich. In England every rich man is telling that to every poor man all day long. It is the cry of the press and the pulpit, of the home and of the Sunday-school. Every millionaire is angry with the man who is not a millionaire. Why? They tell us that we could become millionaires like them if we chose; and it is a lie. We cannot all be millionaires. There are not enough millions to go round. The millionaire himself has gained his money at someone else’s expense. You have gained your money at my expense. Instead of the inheritance being divided, you have it all. If I am not angry with you on that account, why should you be angry with me?” “I am not angry,” Trent protested again. But he began to feel a little shaken. “If we all became millionaires,” Alistair continued calmly, “you who are millionaires already would be the first to suffer. You would have no servants to wait on you, no labourers to toil for you, no clerks to make and keep your millions for you. Surely it is to your interest that a large part of mankind should remain poor. Then why be angry with them on account of their poverty? Why despise them for serving you? If you like robbing, why abuse those who let themselves be robbed?” “Does this mean that you are going to turn Socialist?” asked the puzzled Duke. Alistair smiled. “Can’t you see that it means the very opposite? It is you who are the Socialist--yes, you--because it is you who will not tolerate the individual. You have never tolerated me. You have always been trying, as you put it, to reform me. And what do you mean by reforming me? You mean crushing me out of my natural shape and into your natural shape. You believe that all men ought to resemble each other like buttons on a coat--and you are the pattern button.” Trent made no answer. In his heart he felt that he was the pattern button, and that Alistair ought to try to resemble him. But he feared his brother’s sarcastic tongue too much to say so. “Why?” Alistair continued. “I am sure it has never occurred to you that I ought to dye my hair the same shade as yours, though men stooped even to that depth in the days of Louis Quatorze. You have just admitted that I am not really to blame for having been born after you, or because you have my share of the property. Then why blame me because my tastes are different from yours--because I prefer poetry to politics, and Bohemia to Philistia?” “It is not a matter of taste only. The common rules of morality are the same for all.”