“Comparative idiotcy?”
“Sheer idiotcy, on yours. I have several thousands a year, and I can almost—not quite—but I affirm, almost, afford to talk honestly to the Working man. No candidate for Parliament can quite afford to be honest to the Working man.”
“And the Working man returns the compliment, only he works it off on the general public,” said Harold.
The other man smiled pityingly upon him—the smile of the professor of anatomy upon the student who identifies a thigh bone—the smile which the savant allows himself when brought in contact with a discerner of the obvious.
“No woman is quite frank in her prayers—no politician is quite honest with the Working man.”
“Well. I am prepared to be not quite honest with him too.”
“You may believe yourself equal even to that; but it’s not so easy as it sounds. There is an art in not being quite honest. However, that’s a detail.”
“I humbly venture so to judge it.”
“The main thing is to get returned.”
“The main thing is, as you say, to get the money.”