‘Do you know,’ said Munden slyly, ‘that you have brought back a trans-Atlantic accent?’
‘Accent? The devil! I don’t believe it.’
‘Intonation, at all events.’
Tarrant professed a serious annoyance.
‘If that’s true, I’ll go and live for a month in Limerick.’
‘It would be cheaper to join a Socialist club in the East End. But just tell me how you stand. How long can you hold out in these aristocratic lodgings?’
‘Till Christmas. I’m ashamed to say how I’ve got the money, so don’t ask. I reached London with empty pockets. And I’ll tell you one thing I have learnt, Munden. There’s no villainy, no scoundrelism, no baseness conceivable, that isn’t excused by want of money. I understand the whole “social question.” The man who has never felt the perspiration come out on his forehead in asking himself how he is going to keep body and soul together, has no right to an opinion on the greatest question of the day.’
‘What particular scoundrelism or baseness have you committed?’ asked the other.
Tarrant averted his eyes.
‘I said I could understand such things.’