“Nerves!” repeated Mr. Vanstone.  “Thank God, I know nothing about my nerves.  If you have got anything to tell me, shock or no shock, out with it on the spot.”

Mr. Clare held the letter a little higher, and frowned at his visitor across the breakfast-table.  “What have I always told you?” he asked, with his sourest solemnity of look and manner.

“A great deal more than I could ever keep in my head,” answered Mr. Vanstone.

“In your presence and out of it,” continued Mr. Clare, “I have always maintained that the one important phenomenon presented by modern society is—­the enormous prosperity of Fools.  Show me an individual Fool, and I will show you an aggregate Society which gives that highly-favored personage nine chances out of ten—­and grudges the tenth to the wisest man in existence.  Look where you will, in every high place there sits an Ass, settled beyond the reach of all the greatest intellects in this world to pull him down.  Over our whole social system, complacent Imbecility rules supreme—­snuffs out the searching light of Intelligence with total impunity—­and hoots, owl-like, in answer to every form of protest, See how well we all do in the dark!  One of these days that audacious assertion will be practically contradicted, and the whole rotten system of modern society will come down with a crash.”

“God forbid!” cried Mr. Vanstone, looking about him as if the crash was coming already.

“With a crash!” repeated Mr. Clare.  “There is my theory, in few words.  Now for the remarkable application of it which this letter suggests.  Here is my lout of a boy—­”

“You don’t mean that Frank has got another chance?” exclaimed Mr. Vanstone.

“Here is this perfectly hopeless booby, Frank,” pursued the philosopher.  “He has never done anything in his life to help himself, and, as a necessary consequence, Society is in a conspiracy to carry him to the top of the tree.  He has hardly had time to throw away that chance you gave him before this letter comes, and puts the ball at his foot for the second time.  My rich cousin (who is intellectually fit to be at the tail of the family, and who is, therefore, as a matter of course, at the head of it) has been good enough to remember my existence; and has offered his influence to serve my eldest boy.  Read his letter, and then observe the sequence of events.  My rich cousin is a booby who thrives on landed property; he has done something for another booby who thrives on Politics, who knows a third booby who thrives on Commerce, who can do something for a fourth booby, thriving at present on nothing, whose name is Frank.  So the mill goes.  So the cream of all human rewards is sipped in endless succession by the Fools.  I shall pack Frank off to-morrow.  In course of time he’ll come back again on our hands, like a bad shilling; more chances will fall in his way, as a necessary consequence of his meritorious imbecility.  Years will go on—­I may not live to see it,