“Well, why shouldn't we support the working-people of Paris and elsewhere? Do you want us to make our own clothes and starve the sewing-women? Suppose there weren't any balls and fine dresses and what you call luxury. What would the poor do without the rich? Isn't it the highest charity to give them work? Even with it they are ungrateful enough.”
“That is too deep for me,” said Morgan, evasively. “I suppose they ought to be contented to see us enjoying ourselves. It's all in the way of civilization, I dare say.”
“It's just as I thought,” said Margaret, more lightly. “You haven't an inkling of what civilization is. See that flower before you. It is the most exquisite thing in this room. See the refinement of its color and form. That was cultivated. The plant came from South Africa. I don't know what expense the gardener has been to about it, what material and care have been necessary to bring it to perfection. You may take it to Mrs. Morgan as an object-lesson. It is a thing of beauty. You cannot put any of your mercantile value on it. Well, that is woman, the consummate flower of civilization. That is what civilization is for.”
“I'm sorry for you, old fellow,” said Henderson.
“I'm sorry for myself,” Carmen said, demurely.
“I admit all that,” Morgan replied. “Take Mr. Henderson as a gardener, then.”
“Suppose you take somebody else, and let my husband eat his dinner.”
“Oh, I don't mind preaching; I've got used to being made to point a moral.”
“But he will go on next about the luxury of the age, and the extravagance of women, and goodness knows what,” said Margaret.
“No, I'm talking about men,” Morgan continued. “Consider Henderson—it's entirely impersonal—as a gardener. What does he get out of his occupation? He can look at the flower. Perhaps that is enough. He gets a good dinner when he has time for it, an hour at his club now and then, occasionally an evening or half a day off at home, a decent wardrobe—”