Gilbert made a gesture of impatience. “Nonsense, you must accept the world’s verdict on these things, and let me tell you, as a lawyer, that the verdict of the people is pretty sound, in spite of any Ibsen paradoxes you may fling at me. If you like to paddle about in a backwater, no one can prevent you, but don’t pretend it’s the main stream, or rather don’t expect anyone to believe you. I think enough has been talked about Child Labour. Sentimental twaddle! The law has done all that is necessary.”
“Have you ever gone closely into the question, Gilbert?” Colin took his cigarette-case out of his pocket and abstracted another cigarette.
“Yes, as much as I want to. I once had a compensation case, where a lot of sentiment was dragged in by the heels.”
“Ah! you represented the employer, of course?” He threw the match over the verandah.
“Well? The parents of the child were willing it should work. The sentiment came in when it got injured.”
“Exactly, that’s just what we complain of. Child labour demoralizes the parents. But, leaving the parents out of the question,” his voice grew warmer, in spite of his evident effort to keep cool—“don’t you see that the interest of future generations of workers demands that children, instead of becoming ‘half-timers,’ shall have a chance to develop, to let their bodies grow into something strong and fine, so that—and this should appeal to you—England may hold her own against other younger, more vigorous nations. I say nothing about the joyless lives of the children who are old in mind as well as body before those of our class go to Eton or Harrow, but surely the future of the race interests you? You get more work out of a vigorous, able-bodied man or woman.”
“Oh yes! I’m interested, but I prefer to work for the present generation. I’ll do without a rain-washed, dirty statue that a crank occasionally puts a wreath on and no one else remembers.”
“Gilbert!” exclaimed Claudia, unable to let the taunt pass. “How can you be such an arrant materialist?”
“We live in a materialistic age, my dear,” said her husband coolly. “In a few years’ time ideals will be as dead as door-nails. Idealists are usually weak dreamers, who resent the driving force of others, and who try—ineffectually—to dam the current of their progress. I don’t mean that you are to be classed with these ineffectuals, Colin, but you allow yourself to be carried away by their enthusiasms. Enthusiasm is a good servant, but a bad master. To do anything worth doing, you must have a judicial mind, and put nothing of yourself in the scale.”