“Didn’t I say so?” cried the priest triumphantly. “He never argues, he only convinces.”
“Yet I am sorry to say that I am still unconvinced,” said the rich man, smiling. “History is against you, Mr. Clare. A people never rebel until their wrongs have become unbearable; take the French Revolution, for example, or even our own, a hundred years ago. I hope you don’t pretend that the American workingman is oppressed as the French peasant was.”
“My friend has told you that I never argue,” replied Ernest Clare, smiling, “certainly not here, with you, and on that subject.”
“I see no objection,” was Mr. Randolph’s reply, “for I consider the American workingman exceptionally well off. And as to wrong”—
“Oh, papa, what does it matter? Rights or wrongs, who cares?” cried Pinkie despairingly; “you have smothered me with bales of cloth, and stifled me with barrels of sugar and bags of coffee, all the morning; but when it comes to the American workingman, I can stand it no longer; my wrongs become unbearable and I rebel.”
“So you take no interest in working-people?” asked Karl Metzerott meaningly.
Rosalie Randolph looked at him with eyes of haughty surprise.
“Not the slightest,” she said distinctly.
“Ah! your interest is reserved for your dolls as yet, my dear,” said her indulgent papa; “public affairs will come later. Good-morning then, Mr. Metzerott; thank you very much for your kindness. Mr. Clare, I am glad you did not convince me, as at present I feel inclined to assist ‘Prices’ to the best of my ability, and yet I object to the Commune. A ‘divide’ is the last thing I should crave.”
“It would be the last thing you’d get, in all probability,” growled Metzerott, “except”—