“You are against that, are you not?  Donovan Brown is against it, and I am against it.  You may disagree with us in everything else, but there you are at one with us.  Is it not so?”

“But that may be the result of drunkenness, improvidence, or—­”

“My father’s income was fifty times as great as that of Donovan Brown.  Do you believe that Donovan Brown is fifty times as drunken and improvident as my father was?”

“Certainly not.  I do not deny that there is much in what you urge.  Still, you ask me to take a rather important step.”

“Not a bit of it.  I don’t ask you to subscribe to, join, or in any way pledge yourself to any society or conspiracy whatsoever.  I only want your name for private mention to cowards who think Socialism right, but will not say so because they do not think it respectable.  They will not be ashamed of their convictions when they learn that a baronet shares them.  Socialism offers you something already, you see; a good use for your hitherto useless title.”

Sir Charles colored a little, conscious that the example of his favorite painter had influenced him more than his own conviction or the arguments of Trefusis.

“What do you think, Chester?” he said.  “Will you join?”

“Erskine is already committed to the cause of liberty by his published writings,” said Trefusis.  “Three of the pamphlets on that shelf contain quotations from ‘The Patriot Martyrs.’”

Erskine blushed, flattered by being quoted; an attention that had been shown him only once before, and then by a reviewer with the object of proving that the Patriot Martyrs were slovenly in their grammar.

“Come!” said Trefusis.  “Shall I write to Donovan Brown that his letters have gained the cordial assent and sympathy of Sir Charles Brandon?”

“Certainly, certainly.  That is, if my unknown name would be of the least interest to him.”

“Good,” said Trefusis, filling his glass with water.  “Erskine, let us drink to our brother Social Democrat.”

Erskine laughed loudly, but not heartily.  “What an ass you are, Brandon!” he said.  “You, with a large landed estate, and bags of gold invested in railways, calling yourself a Social Democrat!  Are you going to sell out and distribute—­to sell all that thou hast and give to the poor?”

“Not a penny,” replied Trefusis for him promptly.  “A man cannot be a Christian in this country.  I have tried it and found it impossible both in law and in fact.  I am a capitalist and a landholder.  I have railway shares, mining shares, building shares, bank shares, and stock of most kinds; and a great trouble they are to me.  But these shares do not represent wealth actually in existence; they are a mortgage on the labor of unborn generations of laborers, who must work to keep me and mine in idleness and luxury.  If I sold them, would the mortgage be cancelled and the unborn generations released from its thrall?  No.