t believe in classes. I don't feel--at least I try not to
feel--any sense of inequality between myself and those--those
less--less--fortunately off. I'm not expressing myself well, but you
know what I mean."

"Yes, I know what you mean," rejoined Victor. "But that wasn't what I
meant, at all. You are talking about social classes in the narrow
sense. That sort of thing isn't important. One associates with the
kind of people that pleases one--and one has a perfect right to do so.
If I choose to have my leisure time with people who dress a certain
way, or with those who have more than a certain amount of money, or
more than a certain number of servants or what not--why, that's my own
lookout."

"I'm SO glad to hear you say that," cried Jane. "That's SO sensible."

"Snobbishness may be amusing," continued Dorn, "or it may be
repulsive--or pitiful. But it isn't either interesting or important.
The classes I had in mind were the economic classes--upper, middle,
lower. The upper class includes all those who live without
work--aristocrats, gamblers, thieves, preachers, women living off men
in or out of marriage, grown children living off their parents or off
inheritances. All the idlers."

Jane looked almost as uncomfortable as she felt. She had long taken a
secret delight in being regarded and spoken of as an "upper class"
person. Henceforth this delight would be at least alloyed.

"The middle class," pursued Victor, "is those who are in part parasites
and in part workers. The lower class is those who live by what they
earn only. For example, you are upper class, your father is middle
class and I am lower class."

"Thank you," said Jane demurely, "for an interesting lesson in
political economy."

"You invited it," laughed Victor. "And I guess it wasn't much more
tiresome to you than talk about the weather would have been. The
weather's probably about the only other subject you and I have in
common."

"That's rude," said Jane.

"Not as I meant it," said he. "I wasn't exalting my subjects or
sneering at yours. It's obvious that you and I lead wholly different
lives."

"I'd much rather lead your life than my own," said Jane. "But--you are
impatient to see father. You came to see him?"

"He telephoned asking me to come to dinner--that is, lunch. I believe
it's called lunch when it's second in this sort of house."

"Father calls it dinner, and I call it lunch, and the servants call it
IT. They si