“Perfection,” remarked Quong Ho, “is to be found neither in this world nor the next, but only in that harmonious principle of the soul which is termed li in the Confucian philosophy.”
“Quong Ho,” said Baltazar in Chinese, “your wisdom befits rather the honourable white beard of the teacher than the smooth-shaven chin of the pupil of five-and-twenty.”
Quong Ho bowed respectfully at the compliment and withdrew.
“Confound the Income Tax!” said Baltazar, looking through the papers. He had completely forgotten his liability. The sudden reminder vexed him. Of course he must pay; but his income being exclusively derived from investments, all of which were taxed at the source before the dividend warrants were paid automatically into his account at his bankers’, why should he be worried? He resented the intrusion on his privacy.
A week later Quong Ho posted the form in the ironically provided, penny-saving official envelope, and Baltazar dismissed the incident from his mind.
When some time afterwards his assessment paper arrived, it caused him some astonishment. He cast his memory back twenty years. In 1896 the Income Tax, if he remembered rightly, was inconsiderable, some sixpence in the pound. Now it was half a crown. He filled up the form, an easy task, thinking less than ever of the social condition of Modern England; such high direct taxation could only mean the desperate financial straits of a decadent country. Well, as far as he was concerned, the loss of one-eighth of his income did not matter. The initial expenses of his installation at Spendale Farm over, he scarcely spent a third of it.
The next disturbing document that found its way to Spendale Farm contained a searching series of questions, headed “National Registration.”
“I am ceasing to regard England as a fit place to live in,” said he, with some petulance. “This is Mandarinism run riot.”
A few weeks afterwards he received a neat little card folded in two, on the outside of which was printed a vile semblance of the Royal Coat of Arms and “National Registration Act, 1915,” and inside a certificate of the Registration of (a) John Baltazar, (b) Philosophical Investigator—for as such had he irritably described himself—(c) of Spendale Farm, Water-End. There was a space for the signature of Holder, and below it in great capitals “God Save the King.” On the back were directions as to change of address.
“God knows what’s coming over the country,” said he. “It appears that a free-born Englishman has got to carry about his police papers, as people have to do in disgusting countries like Germany and Russia. What about you, Quong Ho? Have you got a pretty little document like this?”