"Ah!" said Marcella, wistfully. "Yes, if one thought that, I could understand. But, even so, if the power behind things cares nothing for us, I should only regard it as challenging us to care more for each other. Do you mind my asking you a few plain questions? Do you know anything personally of the London poor? I mean, have you any real friends among them, whose lives you know?"
"Well, I sit with Fontenoy while he receives deputations from all those tailoresses and shirtmakers and fur-sewers that you want to put in order. The harassed widow streams through his room perpetually—wailing to be let alone!"
Marcella made a sound of amused scorn.
"Oh! you think that nothing," said George, indignant. "I vow I could draw every type of widow that London contains—I know them intimately."
She shook her head.
"I give up London. Then, in the North, aren't you a coal-owner? Do you know your miners?"
"Yes, and I detest them!" said George, shortly; "pig-headed brutes! They will be on strike next month, and I shall be defrauded of my lawful income till their lordships choose to go back. Pity me, if you please—not them!"
"So I do," she said with spirit—"if you hate the men by whom you live!"
There was silence. Then suddenly George said, in another tone:
"But sometimes, I don't deny, the beggars wring it out of one—your pity. I saw a mother last week—Suppose we stroll on a little. I want to see how the river gets out of the wood."