“I should have preferred that you should tell me the truth,” she said quickly.
“I believed that you would,” he answered. “That was why I spoke.”
“Was what he did so very dreadful?” asked the girl, in a low voice.
“I would prefer not to answer,” said he. “I cannot judge your father. I am simply trying to protect myself. I'm afraid of the grip of this world upon me. I have followed the careers of so many men, one after another. They come into it, and it lays hold of them, and before they know it, they become corrupt. What I have seen here in the Metropolis has filled me with dismay, almost with terror. Every fibre of me cries out against it; and I mean to fight it—to fight it all my life. And so I do not care to make terms with it socially. When I have seen a man doing what I believe to be a dreadful wrong, I cannot go to his home, and shake his hand, and smile, and exchange the commonplaces of life with him.”
It was a long time before Miss Hegan replied. Her voice was trembling.
“Mr. Montague,” she said, “you must not think that I have not been troubled by these things. But what can one do? What is the remedy?”
“I do not know,” he answered. “I wish that I did know. I can only tell you this, that I do not intend to rest until I have found out.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He replied: “I am going into politics. I am going to try to teach the people.”