“But I have heard a man of science say that only one person out of every hundred is really sane?”
“We are bad judges of each other’s sanity. But since you take an interest in serious subjects,” says Bertram, resting his eyes on her in approval, “I will, if you will allow me, send you some back numbers of the Age to Come.”
“Do you mean, Wilfrid, that an obtuse world is so ungrateful as to leave you any back numbers at all?” asks Southwold.
“They will show you,” continues Bertram, ignoring the interruption, “what my views and the views of those who think with me are, concerning the best method of preparing the world to meet those social changes which are inevitable for the future, those rights of the individual which are totally ignored and outraged by all present governments, whether absolute, constitutional, or, in nomenclature, republican.”
“But why should we prepare to meet them when they’ll be so deucedly uncomfortable to us if they arrive, and why should we trouble about helping them onward if they’re so inevitable and cocksure in their descent on us?” says his uncle.
“I asked you that question just now, and you didn’t answer me. Does one avoid an avalanche in the Alps by firing a gun to make it fall sooner than it would do if left alone?”
Critchett is meantime engaged on the expulsion of the printer’s devil by a back-stair exit, and, profiting by his absence, a little girl, who has come in at the front entrance, pushes aside the portière of the door and stands abashed in the middle of the room. She is eight years old, has a head of red hair, and the shrewd, watching face of the London child; she carries a penny bunch of violets. Bertram sees her entrance with extreme displeasure, not unmixed with embarrassment.
“What do you want here, Bessy?” he inquires, with scant amiability.
Bessy advances and holds out the violets.
“Annie sends these ’ere vi’lets with her love, and she’s got to go to Ealin’ for a big border o’ mustard an’ cress, and please when’ll you be round at our place?”