closer knowledge of all political parties reveals. I remember how ashamed
I felt of the quite unostentatious comfort of our home, how anxious I was
to dissemble the presence of servants, how necessary I thought it to dress
myself in my oldest and least becoming clothes for the occasion, and how
indignant I felt when Caroline, who was going off to sing at a concert
that evening, said, on coming in to wish me good-bye, "Why, surely,
Isabel, you're not going to receive that gentleman looking such a fright
as this?" As if a Socialist could care for dress! How I felt he would
despise me for all the outward signs which proved that I was living on the
results of "unearned increment" (_vide_ Karl Marx) and that I was a
mere social parasite!

When at last the longed-for, yet dreaded moment came, I was surprised,
relieved, and I must add somewhat disappointed, at seeing a young man
looking much like any other gentleman, except that he wore a red tie, and
that his clothes were of a looser and easier fit than is usual. "What a
jolly place you have!" he exclaimed after my brother had introduced us and
he had given a look round. I felt considerably relieved, as I had quite
expected him to scowl disapproval, and my brother, after saying, "Yes, it
is a nice old house; we are very fond of it," suggested that we should
adjourn to supper.

During this repast I took an animated part in the conversation, which
turned on recent books and plays. At last reference was made to a book,
"The Ethics of Egoism," which had excited much attention. It was a work
advocating the most rabid individualism, denying the Socialist standpoint
of the right to live, and saying that the best safeguard for the
development and amelioration of the race lay in that relentless law of
nature which sent the mentally and morally weak to the wall. I had read
the book with interest, and had even written a rather long criticism of