ANTHONY. What do you know about necessity? Read your novels, play your music, talk your talk, but don't try and tell me what's at the bottom of a struggle like this.
ENID. I live down here, and see it.
ANTHONY. What d' you imagine stands between you and your class and these men that you're so sorry for?
ENID. [Coldly.] I don't know what you mean, Father.
ANTHONY. In a few years you and your children would be down in the condition they're in, but for those who have the eyes to see things as they are and the backbone to stand up for themselves.
ENID. You don't know the state the men are in.
ANTHONY. I know it well enough.
ENID. You don't, Father; if you did, you would n't
ANTHONY. It's you who don't know the simple facts of the position. What sort of mercy do you suppose you'd get if no one stood between you and the continual demands of labour? This sort of mercy— [He puts his hand up to his throat and squeezes it.] First would go your sentiments, my dear; then your culture, and your comforts would be going all the time!
ENID. I don't believe in barriers between classes.