“It’s a good thing you didn’t. The King is an amiable gentleman, but the High Mandarins from whom this proceeds are not to be trifled with.” He glanced through the papers. “It is well,” said he, with a sigh of relief. “The High Mandarins around the Throne are as yet ignorant of my whereabouts; but if I refused to obey this invitation, they would soon learn it. It is a pestilential minor official in the vicinity who for the sake of money—it’s his disgusting mode of livelihood—has violated my solitude.” “In the New China,” said Quong Ho, “we hope to do away with the bureaucracy, which is a parasite on civilization.” “You won’t do it,” said Baltazar. “In the New Jerusalem—by which we mean the Kingdom of Heaven—there is a Recording Angel, and you may bet your boots he has got his staff of officials who write minutes and fill up forms all Eternity long.” “Perfection,” remarked Quong Ho, “is to be found neither in this world nor the next, but only in that harmonious principle of the soul which is termed _li_ in the Confucian philosophy.” “Quong Ho,” said Baltazar in Chinese, “your wisdom befits rather the honourable white beard of the teacher than the smooth-shaven chin of the pupil of five-and-twenty.” Quong Ho bowed respectfully at the compliment and withdrew. “Confound the Income Tax!” said Baltazar, looking through the papers. He had completely forgotten his liability. The sudden reminder vexed him. Of course he must pay; but his income being exclusively derived from investments, all of which were taxed at the source before the dividend warrants were paid automatically into his account at his bankers’, why should he be worried? He resented the intrusion on his privacy. A week later Quong Ho posted the form in the ironically provided, penny-saving official envelope, and Baltazar dismissed the incident from his mind. When some time afterwards his assessment paper arrived, it caused him some astonishment. He cast his memory back twenty years. In 1896 the Income Tax, if he remembered rightly, was inconsiderable, some sixpence in the pound. Now it was half a crown. He filled up the form, an easy task, thinking less than ever of the social condition of Modern England; such high direct taxation could only mean the desperate financial straits of a decadent country. Well, as far as he was concerned, the loss of one-eighth of his income did not matter. The initial expenses of his installation at Spendale Farm over, he scarcely spent a third of it. The next disturbing document that found its way to Spendale Farm contained a searching series of questions, headed “National Registration.” “I am ceasing to regard England as a fit place to live in,” said he, with some petulance. “This is Mandarinism run riot.”