"But you are up here," said Eileen, naively.
"I can't help it. My mother would raise Cain." He smiled wistfully. "She couldn't bear to see a stranger helping father in the factory management."
"Then you are down there."
"Quite so. I work as hard as any one even if my labour isn't manual. I dress like an ordinary hand, too, though my mother doesn't know that, for I change at the office."
"But what good does that do?"
"It satisfies my conscience."
"And I suppose the men like it?"
"No, that's the strange part. They don't. And father only laughs. But one must persist. At Oxford I worked under Ruskin."
"Oh, you're an artist!"
"No, I didn't mean that part of Ruskin's work. His gospel of labour—we had a patch for digging."