St. Herbert. Where most things end. In the millennium, according to its advocates. In the ruin of the country, according to its opponents. In mild surprise on the part of the next generation that ever there was any fuss about it.
Sigsby. In amazement, you mean, that their fathers were so blind as not to see where it was leading. My boy, this is going to alter the whole relationship between the sexes!
St. Herbert. Is it so perfect as it is?
(A silence.)
Might it not be established on a more workable, a more enduring basis if woman were allowed a share in the shaping of it?
(Some woman in the crowd starts the refrain, “We’ll hang old Asquith on a sour apple tree.” It is taken up with quiet earnestness by others.)
Sigsby. Shaping it! Nice sort of shape it will be by the time that lot (with a gesture, including the crowd, Lady Mogton & Co.) have done knocking it about. Wouldn’t be any next generation to be surprised at anything if some of them had their way.
St. Herbert. The housebreakers come first—not a class of work demanding much intelligence; the builders come later. Have you seen Chilvers?
Lamb. I left him at the House. He couldn’t get away.
Sigsby. There’s your object-lesson for you. We don’t need to go far. A man’s whole career ruined by the wife he nourishes.