"I don't quite understand you," he said, doubtfully.
"I will explain. You have given yourself to us—your time,
your labor, your future; but the final step of self-sacrifice—is it so very difficult? In many cases it is merely a challenge: we say, 'Show that you can trust us even for your very livelihood. Become absolutely dependent on us, even for your food, your drink, your clothes.' In your case, I admit, it is something more: it is an invitation to a very considerable self-sacrifice. All the more proof that you are not afraid."
"I do not think I am afraid," said Brand, slowly; "but—"
"One moment. The affair is simple. The officers of our society—those who govern—those from whom are chosen the members of the Council—that Council that is more powerful than any government in Europe—those officers, I say, are required first of all to surrender every farthing of personal property, so that they shall become absolutely dependent on the Society itself—"
Brand looked a trifle bewildered: more than that, resentful and indignant, as if his common-sense had received a shock.
"It is a necessary condition," Lind continued, without eagerness—rather as if he were merely enunciating a theory. "It insures absolute equality; it is a proof of faith. And you may perceive that, as I am alive, they do not allow one to starve."
The slight smile that accompanied this remark was meant to be reassuring. Certainly, Mr. Lind did not starve; if the society of which he was a member enabled him to live as he did in Curzon Street, he had little to complain of.
"You mean," said George Brand, "that before I enter this highest grade, next to the Council, I must absolutely surrender my entire fortune to you?"
"To the common fund of the Society—yes," was the reply; uttered as a matter of course.