“Not so far.”
Jim eyed him sullenly: “Well, I don’t accept Palla as she is––or thinks she is.”
“She’s sincere.”
“I understand that. But no girl can get away with such notions. Where is it all going to land her? What will she be?”
Estridge quoted: “‘It hath not yet appeared what we shall be.’”
Shotwell rose impatiently, and picked up his overcoat: “All I know is that when two healthy people care for each other it’s their business––their business, I repeat––to 171 get together legally and do the decent thing by the human race.”
“Breed?”
“Certainly! Breed legally the finest, healthiest, best of specimens;––and as many as they can feed and clothe! For if they don’t––if we don’t––I mean our own sort––the land will be crawling with the robust get of all these millions of foreigners, who already have nearly submerged us in America; and whose spawn will, one day, smother us to death.
“Hang it all, aren’t they breeding like vermin now? All yellow dogs do––all the unfit produce big litters. That’s the only thing they ever do––accumulate progeny.
“And what are we doing?––our sort, I mean? I’ll tell you! Our sisters are having such a good time that they won’t marry, if they can avoid it, until they’re too mature to get the best results in children. Our wives, if they condescend to have any offspring at all, limit the output to one. Because more than one might damage their beauty. Hell! If the educated classes are going to practise race suicide and the Bolsheviki are going to breed like lice, you can figure out the answer for yourself.”