"Jim, this is stupid pride, the stupidest of all pride, the vainest and the meanest, the pride of the poor man. It's detestable. I thought you were greater. There's some excuse for the pride of wealth, but there's none for the pride of poverty!"
"It's a question of character," was the firm answer. "It cuts to the deepest issues of life between us. There can be no compromise."
Nan looked at him in despair, her eyes suddenly clouding with tears.
"What do you mean when you say give up these millions?"
"Just what I say," he answered quickly.
"But I couldn't throw them into the street, what would I do with them?"
"You can give them back to the people, the public, from whom they were taken; the people whose labour created their value. That's what an honest man does when he finds he has wronged his neighbour. The things we possess come at last to possess us. In a very deep and real sense they give to us their character. An ermine robe that covers a leper does not make him a king, but the royal robe at last breathes leprosy. You can't separate money from the process of its making. It has no value in itself. It is only a symbol, and always takes a soul from the hand of its creator. There's not a stone in your palaces whose cement was not mixed in human tears. The stain of blood is in every scarlet thread of your carpets, rugs, and curtains. Your magnificent paintings, your gorgeous furniture, your beds of ebony and carved ivory—do you think these things possess no soul? Do you think they could not laugh at me?"
"Surely, you are not such a weakling!" Nan cried, with a flush of contempt.
"If to hold honour dearer than life is the creed of a weakling, I am one."