“Oh! we shall pull through, I think,” said Mr. Clare easily. “You see, there is very little conflict of interests among us, so our ship is readily handled; and we are able to shorten sail, and even, in extremity, cast the cargo overboard. But we haven’t come to that yet,” he added. “Ah? I rejoice to hear it. And without metaphor”— “Without metaphor, our shareholders, rich and poor, decided to forego their regular rate of interest on their investments, to enable us to reduce our prices for food, clothes, and lodging; accepting, at the year’s end, any dividend the company may be in funds to declare.” “Most praiseworthy,” said Henry Randolph with a sneer. “By no means! it is only taking out of one pocket and putting into another,” replied Mr. Clare. “I see from this morning’s paper that a large Socialistic meeting took place last night, where several speeches of a decidedly insurrectionary character were made. I suppose both of you were present?” pursued the millionnaire. “Neither of us,” replied Mr. Clare. “But one of the speakers was called Metzerott. Your father, perhaps?” to Louis. “It was my father,” replied the young man, in a voice of such pain that Pinkie glanced at him involuntarily; but, at the quick, ardent look of gratitude that flashed into his eyes, she glowed vividly, bent her head for a moment over her work, then, raising it haughtily, sent him another glance of icy disdain. “I am sorry to hear it,” said Mr. Randolph, who had seen nothing of this by-play; “but of course such principles as all of you profess can lead only in one direction. And you’ll get into trouble down there at ‘Prices,’ I warn you as a friend. We are a law-abiding people here in America”— “And therefore aim to improve the laws,” said Mr. Clare so quietly that his remark did not seem an interruption. “Eh! improve? you’ll never improve away the distinction between rich and poor, or the laws that protect property.” “God forbid—_the last_,” said Mr. Clare. “What we aim at is to make property—outside of what we now call personalties—really stable and secure, by making the Nation, and not any private individual, its owner.” “Tut, tut, what nonsense! I beg your pardon, Mr. Clare; but, really, to hear a man of your intellect, in this age of the world”— “And exactly because it _is_ this age of the world,” said the clergyman, laughing. “Why, Mr. Randolph, a man of _your_ intellect ought to recognize the spirit of the times. Would you have us go back to mediævalism, every man his own sovereign,—barring an act or so of empty homage,—as well as his own postman, policeman, scavenger, and lamplighter?” “We are civilized rather beyond _that_ point, sir; besides, it has nothing to do with the subject in hand.” “Nevertheless, the day will come when ‘every man his own bread-winner and property-holder’ will be equally a relic of barbarism,” said Mr. Clare coolly. “Not in my time, sir, or yours.”