For answer Risley held up a night's paper with glaring head-lines.
“Yes, of course it is in the papers,” assented Robert, wearily.
Risley stared at him in a lazily puzzled fashion. “Well,” he said, “what is it all about? Why are you so broken up about it?” Risley laid considerable emphasis on the you.
“Yes,” cried Robert, in a sudden stress of indignation. “You look at it like all the rest. Why are all the laborers to be petted and coddled, and the capitalists held up to execration? Good Lord, isn't there any pity for the rich man without his drop of water, in the Bible or out? Are all creation born with blinders on, and can they only see before their noses?”
“What are you talking about, Robert?” said Risley, laughing a little.
“I say why should all the sympathy go to the workmen who are acting like the pig-headed idiots they are, and none for the head of the factory, who has the sharp-edged, red-hot brunt of it all to bear?”
“You wouldn't look at it that way if you were one of the poor men just out on strike such weather as this,” said Risley, dryly. He glanced as he spoke at the window, which was beginning to be thickly furred with frost in spite of the heat of the office. Robert followed his gaze, and noted the spreading fairy jungle of crystalline trees and flowers on the broad field of glass.
“Do you think that is the worst thing in the world to bear?” he demanded, angrily.
“What? Cold and hunger not only for yourself, but for those you love?”
“Yes.”