"It's shallow twaddle or sheer want to talk about the dignity and beauty of labor under this system," he went on. "It is ugly and degrading. The fools or hypocrites who talk that way ought to be forced to join the gangs of slaves at their tasks in factory and mine and shop, in the fields and the streets. And even the easier and better paid tasks, even what the capitalists themselves do—those things aren't dignified and beautiful. Capitalism divides all men except those of one class—the class to which I luckily belong—divides all other men into three unlovely classes—slave owners, slave drivers and slaves. But you're not interested in those questions."
"In wage slavery? No. I wish to forget about it. Any alternative to being a wage slave or a slave driver—or a slave owner. Any alternative."
"You don't appreciate your own good fortune," said he. "Most human beings—all but a very few—have to be in the slave classes, in one way or another. They have to submit to the repulsive drudgery, with no advancement except to slave driver. As for women—if they have to work, what can they do but sell themselves into slavery to the machines, to the capitalists? But you—you needn't do that. Nature endowed you with talent—unusual talent, I believe. How lucky you are! How superior to the great mass of your fellow beings who must slave or starve, because they have no talent!"
"Talent?—I?" said Susan. "For what, pray?"
"For the stage."
She looked amused. "You evidently don't think me vain—or you'd not venture that jest."
"For the stage," he repeated.
"Thanks," said she drily, "but I'll not appeal from your verdict."
"My verdict? What do you mean?"
"I prefer to talk of something else," said she coldly, offended by his unaccountable disregard of her feelings.