"That's truer than you think, my friend—far truer than you think; that's why your position is so absurd. And yet you answer me falsely."
Dick gave the other a look that was almost angry.
"No, no, my friend," went on Mr. Brown; "do not mistake me. I do not accuse you of falsehood. You think you are speaking the truth. But you are not. In a way, your plans are defined. You mean to be Member of Parliament for Eastroyd. You mean to be the first Labour Member for that great working-class constituency. Already you have been approached by the various unions of the town, and you have been assured that you will be returned by a triumphant majority. And you've practically accepted, although you have persuaded yourself that you've not yet made up your mind. So far so good—or bad; but you are unsettled. There is something at the back of your mind that you can't explain. It doesn't satisfy you. Am I not speaking the truth?"
"Perhaps," assented Dick.
"And naturally, too. Oh, my young friend, I know—I know. I have been through it all. What is a Labour Member after all? Just one of a few others, who is submerged by the great so-called Liberal and Conservative Parties. What can he do? Speak now and then when he's allowed to, beat the air, be listened to by a handful of his own supporters, and then forgotten. Consider the history of the Labour Party. What influence has it really had on the life of the nation? My friend, the government of the country is still in the hands of the upper and middle classes in spite of all you do and say."
"Pardon me," interrupted Dick, "but what are you driving at? What you say may be partly true, but at least the hope of the working classes, politically speaking, lies in the Labour Party."
"Moonshine, my friend—mere moonshine. The atmosphere of the British House of Commons stifles the aspiration of the Labour Members. One by one they are absorbed into the old orthodox parties, and nothing is done. You know it, too. That's why the thought of becoming a Labour Member is unsatisfying to you. You would never be a real power, and you would always be regarded as an outsider, and you would never touch the helm of affairs."
Dick was silent. After all, he was not a working man. He had social ambitions. He desired not only to be a prominent figure among the working classes; he wanted to be an equal of, a peer amongst the dominant forces of the world. He still remembered Lady Blanche Huntingford—as a Labour Member he would be outside her sphere.
"You see it, don't you?" persisted Mr. Brown.
"And if I do? What then?"