MR. BARLOW. Perhaps I weary you?
ANABEL. Oh, no—no.
MR. BARLOW. Well—then the mines began to pay badly. The seams ran thin and unprofitable, work was short. Either we must close down or introduce a new system, American methods, which I dislike so extremely. Now it really became a case of men working against machines, flesh and blood working against iron, for a livelihood. Still, it had to be done—the whole system revolutionised. Gerald took it in hand—and now I hardly know my own pits, with the great electric plants and strange machinery, and the new coal-cutters—iron men, as the colliers call them—everything running at top speed, utterly dehumanised, inhuman. Well, it had to be done; it was the only alternative to closing down and throwing three thousand men out of work. And Gerald has done it. But I can't bear to see it. The men of this generation are not like my men. They are worn and gloomy; they have a hollow look that I can't bear to see. They are a great grief to me. I remember men even twenty years ago—a noisy, lively, careless set, who kept the place ringing. I feel it is unnatural; I feel afraid of it. And I cannot help feeling guilty.
ANABEL. Yes—I understand. It terrifies me.
MR. BARLOW. Does it?—does it?—Yes.—And as my wife says, I leave it all to Gerald—this terrible situation. But I appeal to God, if anything in my power could have averted it, I would have averted it. I would have made any sacrifice. For it is a great and bitter trouble to me.
ANABEL. Ah, well, in death there is no industrial situation. Something must be different there.
MR. BARLOW. Yes—yes.
OLIVER. And you see sacrifice isn't the slightest use. If only people would be sane and decent.
MR. BARLOW. Yes, indeed.—Would you be so good as to ring, Oliver? I think I must go to bed.
ANABEL. Ah, you have over-tired yourself.