“Too much is happening,” he said. “Noisy, vulgar fuss. Commercialism, competition, factory production. Does it make people happy? Look at that horrid little railway disturbing all this beautiful simple Tuscan life....”
Another long pause.
She made a further step. “But if something beautiful is being destroyed,” she tried, “we ought not to be here.”
That also took a little time to soak in.
Then he stirred impatiently.
“Don’t we,” he asked, “protest? By the mere act of living our own lives? Don’t I, in my small way, try to do my share in the Restoration of Craftsmanship? Aren’t people of our sort doing something—something a little too unpretending to be obvious—to develop the conception of a fairer and better, a less hurried, less greedy life?”
He raised an appealing face to her.
She sat with knitted brows. She did not assent, but it was difficult to argue her disaccord.
He took advantage of her pause.
“Confess,” he said, “you would like to have me a business manager—of some big concern. Or a politician. You want me to be in the scrimmage. No!—lording it over the scrimmage. The real things aren’t done like that, Dolly. The real things aren’t done like that!”