at all doors and windows, and fire extinguishers on every floor.  But that’s nothing.  You should hear about his insurance.  Of course, he’s insured his life and the lives of the whole family of them.  He’s insured against railway accidents and all other accidents, and against illness.  The fidelity of all his clerks is insured.  He’s insured against burglary, naturally.  Against fire, too.  And against loss of rent through fire.  His plate-glass is insured.  His bunch of keys is insured.  He’s insured against employers’ liability.  He’s insured against war.  He’s insured against loss of business profits.  The interest on his mortgage securities is insured.  His wretched little automobile is insured.  I do believe he was once insured against the eventuality of twins.”

“He must feel safe,” I said.

“Not the least bit in the world,” replied Alpha.  “Life is a perfect burden to him.  That wouldn’t matter so much if he didn’t make it a perfect burden to all his family as well.  They’ve all got to be prepared against the worst happening.  If he fell down dead his wife would know just what to do.  She knows all the details of his financial position exactly.  She has to; he sees to that.  He keeps her up to date in them every day.  And she has to show him detailed accounts of the house as though it was a business undertaking, because he’s so afraid of her being left helpless and incapable.  She just has to understand that ‘life is real, life is earnest,’ and death more so.

“Then the children.  They’re all insured, of course.  Each of the girls has to take charge of the house in turn.  And they must all earn their own living—­in case papa fell down dead.  Take that second daughter.  She hates music, but she has a certain mechanical facility with the fiddle, and so she must turn it into coin, in order to be on the safe side.  Her instincts are for fine clothes, idleness, and responsibility.  She’d take the risks cheerfully enough if he’d let her.  But he won’t.  So she’s miserable.  I think they all are more or less.”

“But still,” I put in, “to feel the burden of life is not a bad thing for people’s characters.”

“Perhaps not,” said Alpha.  “But to be crushed under a cartload of bricks isn’t likely to do one much good, is it?  Why, Omega’s a wealthy man, and d’you know, he must live on about a third of his income.  The argument is, as usual, that he’s liable to fall down dead—­and insurance companies are only human—­and anyhow, old age must be amply provided for.  And then all his securities might fall simultaneously.  And lastly, as he says, you never know what may happen.  Ugh!”

“Has anything happened up to now?”

“Oh, yes.  An appalling disaster.  His drawing-room hearthrug caught fire six years ago and was utterly ruined.  He got eleven dollars out of the insurance company for that, and was ecstatically delighted about it for three weeks.  Nothing worse ever will happen to Omega.  His business is one of the safest in the country.  His constitution is that of a crocodile or a parrot.  And he’s as cute as they make ’em.”