Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Principles of Economics 4th Edition Sloman Test Bank
Principles of Economics 4th Edition Sloman Test Bank
Exam
Name___________________________________
MULTIPLE CHOICE. Choose the one alternative that best completes the statement or answers the question.
6) If the opportunity costs of producing a good increase as more of that good is produced, the 6)
economy's production possibility curve will be:
A) a negatively sloped straight line
B) a positively sloped straight line
C) negatively sloped and 'bowed inward' toward the origin
D) negatively sloped and 'bowed outward' from the origin
Answer: D
Explanation: A)
B)
C)
D)
2
9) If a full-time student decides to spend a day at the beach, the opportunity cost of this decision: 9)
A) is best measured by the wage rate that the student could have earned had she/he decided to
work full-time instead of studying
B) is equal to the cost of food and drinks purchased at the beach
C) equals the cost of the beach outing plus the value of the student's alternative use of the time,
such as studying
D) is zero, since the student would have stayed in bed had she/he not decided to go to the beach
Answer: C
Explanation: A)
B)
C)
D)
11) Consider two countries, Germany and Sweden. Germany devotes a larger portion of its production 11)
to investment. Which of the following statements is most likely true?
A) Germany's production possibility curve will shift outwards and to the right further and faster
than Sweden's.
B) Germany will move up its production possibility curve faster than Sweden.
C) Sweden is producing inside its production possibility curve, while Germany is producing at a
point on its production possibility curve.
D) Germany is a poorer country than Sweden.
Answer: A
Explanation: A)
B)
C)
D)
3
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
That last was a subject inviting some minor collaboration; and my
treatment of it owed in certain small details to my companion. We used to
worry the thing together, and extract a good deal of amusement out of it.
Why, given reality, human nature should have come to desire its artificial
presentment: the necessity of gathering generalities to a focus for their
better understanding and appreciation: emotion epitomised, as spirit is
produced by condensation of diffuser liquids: the inexplicable charm of
reflected images, originating very possibly the idea of framed pictures: the
permanent recording of heroic deeds, leading by a natural process to the
appropriation of design to ignobler and less masculine uses—such points,
and fifty others, were suggested and discussed between us, until they began
to assume an orderly progression in my mind. And presently the article was
written, which I am free to confess it would likely have been less promptly
without Fifine’s intervention.
Still, for the most part, my interests were continued independently of her;
though I will not say they borrowed no additional relish from her
neighbourhood. Pursuing them, it was like—to use a base simile—working
with a dram at one’s elbow. To “sip” her in the intervals of reflection was to
find one’s hand surer, one’s brain brighter. Then one day it occurred to me
that I was getting rather to depend on this moral stimulant, and that I might
feel somewhat lost when, in the nature of things, it should be withdrawn.
That consideration surprised me into an effort to do without it, by affecting
more exclusiveness in my labours; but the effort was not a success.
I don’t know why it was (or do I or did I?); but a favourite topic with
Fifine was class distinctions. She frequently recurred to it, and always, it
seemed, with a desire to enlist my sympathies on the side of the proletariat
—with the kindly intention, perhaps, to put me on good terms with my own
less distinguished origin. I took, however, rather a mischievous pleasure in
bewildering her—and sometimes myself—as to my sentiments on the
subject, though mostly I let her suppose my predilections to be for the
“classes”—as thus:—
“The people are the people and will remain the people, not because they
are wronged and oppressed, but because they are deficient in certain
qualities of the superpeople. Not all the efforts of democrats earnest or
democrats self-interested will ever close up and obliterate the line of
cleavage; no social reform whatever will make the two one except in name.
It is a state of mind, not of condition, which separates them; and that, not
class tyranny, was the origin of the division. I think the question of
education has nothing to do with it; we have all the same opportunities in
that respect. But I think the question of happiness has a great deal to do
with it. The people, for all the material misery which infects their masses,
are nearer Nature, and therefore further from self-consciousness, than the
superpeople, and on that account happier. Finally, the people do not aim at
being anything higher than themselves: they aim—and that only when
worked upon by demagogues—at reducing the superpeople to their own
level.”
“Then anyhow you think the people happier than the superpeople?” says
Fifine.
“It seems so.”
Her bosom swelled to a little sigh (she was sitting to me at the moment),
and the meditative brown eyes seemed to search me for some reassuring
sign.
“Then,” said she, “if I were you, I should know, without any question of
qualities, where to seek for happiness.”
“Among the people? And you can say that, remembering the happiness I
told you I derived from your high-born condescension?”
She sat back, with a little impatient gesture.
“I wish, for once, you would treat me as an intelligent being,” she said,
“and not always with that sort of bantering flippancy. It is not in the least
funny, and does not in the least take me in. I don’t condescend, and you
know I don’t; and, if I did, the only malicious pleasure you would derive
from it would be in laughing in your sleeve at my silly vanity. Sometimes,
from my lower place, I wonder if you are really as clever as you would like
to appear. Are you?”
I could only glance up with a modest expression.
“There was once a great Englishman, Fifine, whose name was Bacon,
and he had a pet proverb, ‘The vale best discovereth the hills.’ Am I, you
ask? I leave it to you.”
“Then I think you are not.”
“Ah! Then now I grant your intelligence, and I will never banter you
again. Sit quiet a little. Do you know I am nearly at the end of my task?”
She did not answer, and I worked on. She had never from the start been
permitted to see the portrait: it was to be a surprise to her—and, possibly, a
revelation. Absorbed in some final technical detail, I did not look at her
again; until presently, putting down my palette and brushes with a grunt of
satisfied relinquishment, I leaned back and our eyes met.
“My dear child!” I said: “Fifine, my dear child!”
She rose, as I rose; but I hurried to stop her before she could escape.
“What is it, m’amie? You were not really hurt by my tone? Why I never
thought your interest in the question was any but a mildly controversial one.
I would not have laughed at you for one moment, Fifine, if I had believed
you serious.”
“Yes,” she said, trying resolutely to blink back the drops that would yet
collect and fall; “and I wasn’t serious, of course. I don’t know; but perhaps
—perhaps this confinement is beginning to tell on me a little; and the long
sitting was trying.”
“It is the last,” I answered. “Come and look, Fifine, and speak your mind
about it.”
She needed no coaxing; she was the remotest from your weeping woman,
obstinate and self-pitying. I took her hand, and she came at once, and stood
with me before the picture.
She did not speak for a long time; but at length she turned to me, and I
was content in the guerdon of her look.
“Felix,” she said softly, “women are really of coarser fibre than men. You
see us not as we are, but as your transcendent imaginations paint us. And
we know that well enough; and that is why we will always submit to the
judgment of men, rather than to that of our own sex, who know the truth.”
“You are pleased, Fifine?”
“That you can see this in me? I should not be a woman otherwise.”
“But, with the style—the technique?”
“It is all beautiful; only—only you have not yet painted what I can
understand.”
“Not?”
“No—how I can look like this—to you, to any one.”
I knew her very well. There was no coquetry, no fishing for a compliment
in what she said. Suddenly she turned, and approached her face one instant
towards mine—God knows on what emotional impulse. It was checked as
soon as felt; a vivid flush overspread her cheek.
“I am very tired,” she murmured. “I think I will go and lie down for a
little. Vive le maître!”
“Fifine!” I exclaimed; but she was already at the door of her room.
CHAPTER IX