"And what would that do?"
"It would stir people up. Every day it would stir people up."
"But you see I can't edit. I haven't the money for half a year of a socialist daily.... And meanwhile people want rubber."
Dowd shook his head. "You mean that you and your wife want to have the spending of six or eight thousand a year," he said.
"I don't make half of that," said Trafford.
"Well—half of that," pressed Dowd. "It's all the same to me."
Trafford reflected. "The point where I don't agree with you," he said, "is in supposing that my scale of living—over there, is directly connected with the scale of living—about here."
"Well, isn't it?"
"'Directly,' I said. No. If we just stopped it—over there—there'd be no improvement here. In fact, for a time it would mean dislocations. It might mean permanent, hopeless, catastrophic dislocation. You know that as well as I do. Suppose the West-end became—Tolstoyan; the East would become chaos."
"Not much likelihood," sneered Dowd.