JOURNALIST. [Encouragingly] Quite!
BUILDER. If the law thinks it can back up revolt, it's damned well mistaken. I struck my daughter—I was in a passion, as you would have been.
JOURNALIST. [Encouraging] I'm sure—
BUILDER. [Glaring at him] Well, I don't know that you would; you look a soft sort; but any man with any blood in him.
JOURNALIST. Can one ask what she was doing, sir? We couldn't get that point quite clear.
BUILDER. Doing? I just had my arm round my wife, trying to induce her to come home with me after a little family tiff, and this girl came at me. I lost my temper, and tapped her with my cane. And—that policeman brought by my own daughter—a policeman! If the law is going to enter private houses and abrogate domestic authority, where the hell shall we be?
JOURNALIST. [Encouraging] No, I'm sure—I'm sure!
BUILDER. The maudlin sentimentality in these days is absolutely rotting this country. A man can't be master in his own house, can't require his wife to fulfil her duties, can't attempt to control the conduct of his daughters, without coming up against it and incurring odium. A man can't control his employees; he can't put his foot down on rebellion anywhere, without a lot of humanitarians and licence-lovers howling at him.
JOURNALIST. Excellent, Sir; excellent!
BUILDER. Excellent? It's damnable. Here am I—a man who's always tried to do his duty in private life and public—brought up before the Bench— my God! because I was doing that duty; with a little too much zeal, perhaps—I'm not an angel!