made up of money inherited, of interest, of education fitting us for certain privileged pursuits, of friends similarly endowed, of substantial homes, and substantial relatives of some sort or other, on whom we could fall back—­was it possible for any of us ever to be in the position of having to rely absolutely on ourselves?  For several minutes I pondered that question; and slowly I came to the conclusion that, short of crime, or that unlikely event, marooning, it was not possible.  Never, never—­try as we might—­could any single one of us be quite in the position of one of those whose approaching pauperisation my distant relative had so vehemently deplored.  We were already pauperised.  If we served our country, we were pensioned....  If we inherited land, it could not be taken from us.  If we went into the Church, we were there for life, whether we were suitable or no.  If we attempted the more hazardous occupations of the law, medicine, the arts, or business, there were always those homes, those relations, those friends of ours to fall back on, if we failed.  No!  We could never have to rely entirely on ourselves; we could never be pauperised more than we were already!  And a light burst in on me.  That explained why my distant relative felt so keenly.  It bit him, for he saw, of course, how dreadful it would be for these poor people of the working classes when legislation had succeeded in placing them in the humiliating position in which we already were—­the dreadful position of having something to depend on apart from our own exertions, some sort of security in our lives.  I saw it now.  It was his secret pride, gnawing at him all the time, that made him so rabid on the point.  He was longing, doubtless, day and night, not to have had a father who had land, and had left a sister well enough off to keep him while he was waiting for his job.  He must be feeling how horribly degrading was the position of Claud—­inheriting that land; and of Richard, who, just because he had served in the Indian Civil Service, had got to live on a pension all the rest of his days; and of Willie, who was in danger at any moment, if his health—­always delicate—­gave out, of having a sinecure found for him by his college friends; and of Alan, whose educated charm had enabled him to marry an heiress and live by managing her estates.  All, all sapped of go and foresight and perseverance by a cruel Providence!  That was what he was really feeling, and concealing, be cause he was too well-bred to show his secret grief.  And I felt suddenly quite warm toward him, now that I saw how he was suffering.  I understood how bound he felt in honour to combat with all his force this attempt to place others in his own distressing situation.  At the same time I was honest enough to confess to myself sitting there in the cab—­that I did not personally share that pride of his, or feel that I was being rotted by my own position; I even felt some dim gratitude that if my powers gave out