"Not even their votes," he answered. "We've no desire to get the offices until we get them to keep. And when we shall have conquered the city, we'll move on to the conquest of the county—then of the district—then of the state. Our kind of movement is building in every city now, and in most of the towns and many of the villages. The old parties are falling to pieces because they stand for the old politics of the two factions of the upper class quarreling over which of them should superintend the exploiting of the people. Very few of us realize what is going on before our very eyes—that we're seeing the death agonies of one form of civilization and the birth-throes of a newer form."
"And what will it be?" asked the girl.
She had been waiting for some sign of the "crank," the impractical dreamer. She was confident that this question would reveal the man she had been warned against—that in answering it he would betray his true self. But he disappointed and surprised her.
"How can I tell what it will be?" said he. "I'm not a prophet. All I can say is I am sure it will be human, full of imperfections, full of opportunities for improvements—and that I hope it will be better than what we have now. Probably not much better, but a little—and that little, however small it may be, will be a gain. Doesn't history show a slow but steady advance of the idea that the world is for the people who live in it, a slow retreat of the idea that the world and the people and all its and their resources are for a favored few of some kind of an upper class? Yes—I think it is reasonable to hope that out of the throes will come a freer and a happier and a more intelligent race."
Suddenly she burst out, apparently irrelevantly: "But I can't—I really can't agree with you that everyone ought to do physical labor. That would drag the world down—yes, I'm sure it would."
"I guess you haven't thought about that," said he. "Painters do physical labor—and sculptors—and writers—and all the scientific men—and the inventors—and—" He laughed at her—"Who doesn't do physical labor that does anything really useful? Why, you yourself—at tennis and riding and such things—do heavy physical labor. I've only to look at your body to see that. But it's of a foolish kind—foolish and narrowly selfish."
"I see I'd better not try to argue with you," said she.
"No—don't argue—with me or with anybody," rejoined he. "Sit down quietly and think about life—about your life. Think how it is best to live so that you may get the most out of life—the most substantial happiness. Don't go on doing the silly customary things simply because a silly customary world says they are amusing and worth while. Think—and do—for yourself, Jane Hastings."
She nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "I'll try to," she said. She looked at him with the expression of the mind aroused. It was an expression that often rewarded him after a long straight talk with a fellow being. She went on: "I probably shan't do what you'd approve. You see, I've got to be myself—got to live to a certain extent the kind of a life fate has made for me."
"You couldn't successfully live any other," said he.