"I said--_part_ of the order, my dear. They owe
to you about half of what they'll make off me. . . . What's
that money on the table? Your commission?"
"Yes."
"Twenty-five? Um!" Gideon laughed. "Well, I suppose it's as
generous as I'd be, in the same circumstances. Encourage your
employees, but don't swell-head 'em--that's the good rule. I've
seen many a promising young chap ruined by a raise of pay. . . .
Now, about you and me." Gideon took a roll of bills from
his trousers pocket, counted off five twenties, tossed them on
the table. "There!"
One of the bills in falling touched Susan's hand. She jerked
the hand away as if the bill had been afire. She took all five
of them, folded them, held them out to him. "The house has
paid me," said she.
"That's honest," said he, nodding approvingly. "I like it.
But in your case it don't apply."
These two, thus facing a practical situation, revealed an
important, overlooked truth about human morals. Humanity
divides broadly into three classes: the arrived; those who will
never arrive and will never try; those in a state of flux,
attempting and either failing or succeeding. The arrived and
the inert together preach and to a certain extent practice an
idealistic system of morality that interferes with them in no
way. It does not interfere with the arrived because they have
no need to infringe it, except for amusement; it does not
interfere with the inert, but rather helps them to bear their
lot by giving them a cheering notion that their insignificance
is due to their goodness.
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