"Not at all," replied Dick; "but your views are so out of accord with all this," and he looked around the room as he spoke, "that I am naturally a bit puzzled."
"It is because I have accustomed myself to this, because I have seen inside the minds of rich men, and thus understand their prejudices and points of view, that I also see the other things. You have seen me in places different from this, my friend."
"Yes," replied Dick; "I have."
"Little as you have realised it," went on the other, "I have watched you for years. I have followed you in your career; I have seen your sympathies expand; I have been thrilled with your passion too. You did not suspect, my friend, three years ago, that you would be where you are to-day, eh?"
"No," assented Dick; "I didn't."
"You have thought much, learnt much, suffered much, seen much."
"Yes; I suppose so," and a wistful look came into his eyes, while his face suggested pain.
"It is said," went on the stout man, "that there is no missioner so ardent, so enthusiastic, as the new convert; but, as I have told you, you do not go far enough."
Dick was silent.
"You are spoken of by many as a man with advanced ideas, as one who has an intense passion for justice, as one, too, who has advanced daring plans for the world's betterment; but I, the fat old Englishman, the respectable millionaire, the man whom Governments have to consider—mark that—the man whom Governments have to consider and consult, tell you that your scheme, your plans are mere palliatives, mere surface things, mere sticking-plasters on the great, gaping sores of our times. That if all your ideas were carried out—yes, carried out to the full—you would not advance the cause of humanity one iota. In a few months the old anachronisms, the old abuses, would again prevail, while you would be a back number, a byword, a fellow who played at reform because you neither had the vision to see the world's real needs nor the courage to attempt real reform. A back number, my dear sir, and a mere play-actor to boot."