For one year, I lived like this, as the lesions appeared on my skin, and my extremities numbed. I toiled and it seemed as if my labour crystallised out of me - pure thought turned to pure money, through a process that I did not entirely control. It seemed as if the life was pouring out through my fingers as I worked, as I sickened and withdrew. "I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn't I?" asked the young man.
     "You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to scramble after," said the Margrave.
     "That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw chicken feed to - Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers, roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!"
     "Young sir," said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, "though I do not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his bounty - through a veil of theory and ignorance.
     My work was good, though I cared nothing for my company and would not stay behind long hours like the other employees. Instead I would arrive a few minutes after nine, and work through till twenty minutes past five, typing fast, a concentrated burst of labour spilling from my agile mind, leaving me exhausted. I was powerless before my employment, unable to affect any impact on the world other than its reproduction at an ever higher level.
     The director was shocked the day I requested an audience with him and, in a voice cracked from concealed illness and under use, told him of my decision to leave in pursuit of philosophy.