“We’re not out for Revolution,” said Verney, in a low voice. “We’re out for a decent rate of wage—nothing more than that.”
Then he raised his voice a little, and it had a thrill in it.
“If the Government asks for Revolution, if it arranges it, the blood guilt will be on its head.”
Bertram spoke for the first time. He was irritable, because all this grave discussion had come as a surprise to him, and suggested unpleasant possibilities which he hadn’t imagined, and didn’t believe.
“Don’t you think we’d better drop all mention of the word Revolution? It’s an ugly damn word, and oughtn’t to be in our English vocabulary. It isn’t in our English character, if I know England.”
The company had been startled by Bertram’s intervention, all but Christy, who understood his silences and his outbursts, and the working of his mind.
“Do any of us know England?” asked Bernard Hall, after a slight pause. “The men who went out to the war—to France, Palestine, Egypt, Salonica, Russia—have come back again. We don’t understand what’s going on in their minds. They don’t understand themselves. We’re dealing with uncertain, unknown forces.”
“I know the men pretty well,” said Bertram. “I keep in touch with them.”
They paid some heed to that, and admitted his claim to give evidence, acknowledging their own distance from the labouring classes, their theoretical guesses.
“You don’t think they’re out for trouble?” asked Hall. His dark, Celtic face, with its brooding eyes, was heavily overcast by the shadow of anxiety.