"Because we want to spread knowledge without rousing prejudice. Then there isn't so much to fight."
"What kind of knowledge is Weedon Moore spreading? Tell me that."
Her plain face glowed with the beauty of her aspiration.
"He is spreading the good tidings," she said softly, "good tidings of great joy."
"Don't get on horseback, dear," he said, inexorably, but fondly. "I'm a plain chap, you know. I have to have plain talk. What are the tidings?"
She looked at him in a touched solemnity.
"Don't you know, Jeff," she said, "the working-man has been going on in misery all these centuries because he hasn't known his own power? It's like a man's dying of thirst and not guessing the water is just inside the rock and the rock is ready to break. He's only to look and there are the lines of cleavage." She sought in the soft silk bag that was ever at her hand, took out paper and pen and jotted down a line.
"What are you writing there?" Jeffrey asked, with a certainty that it had something to do with Moore.
"What I just said," she answered, with a perfect simplicity. "About lines of cleavage. It's a good figure of speech, and it's something the men can understand."
"For Moore? You're writing it for Moore?"