"I think so," she said eagerly. "I shall live here very simply, and accumulate all the reserve fund I can. I have set all my heart upon it. I know there are not many people could do such a thing—other obligations would, must, come first. And it may turn out a mistake. But—whatever happens—whatever any of us, Socialists or not, may hope for in the future—here one is with one's conscience, and one's money, and these people, who like oneself have but the one life? In all labour, it is the modern question, isn't it?—how much of the product of labour the workman can extract from the employer? About here there is no union to act for the labourers—they have practically no power. But in the future, we must surely hope they will combine, that they will be stronger—strong enough to force a decent wage. What ought to prevent my free will anticipating a moment—since I can do it—that we all want to see?"
She spoke with a strong feeling; but his ear detected a new note—something deeper and wistfuller than of old.
"Well—as you say, you are for experiments!" he replied, not finding it easy to produce his own judgment quickly. Then, in another tone—"it was always Hallin's cry."
She glanced up at him, her lips trembling.
"I know. Do you remember how he used to say—'the big changes may come—the big Collectivist changes. But neither you nor I will see them. I pray not to see them. Meanwhile—all still hangs upon, comes back to, the individual, Here are you with your money and power; there are those men and women whom you can share with—in new and honourable ways—to-day.'"
Then she checked herself suddenly.
"But now I want you to tell me—will you tell me?—all the objections you see. You must often have thought such things over."
She was looking nervously straight before her. She did not see the flash of half-bitter, half-tender irony that crossed his face. Her tone of humility, of appeal, was so strange to him, remembering the past.
"Yes, very often," he answered. "Well, I think these are the kind of arguments you will have to meet."
He went through the objections that any economist would be sure to weigh against a proposal of the kind, as clearly as he could, and at some length—but without zest. What affected Marcella all through was not so much the matter of what he said, as the manner of it. It was so characteristic of the two voices in him—the voice of the idealist checked and mocked always by the voice of the observer and the student. A year before, the little harangue would have set her aflame with impatience and wrath. Now, beneath the speaker, she felt and yearned towards the man.