‘I cannot stand Vincent,’ said Marshall, ‘he is too flowery for me, and he does not belong to the people. He is middle-class to the backbone.’
‘He is deficient in ideas,’ said Dennis.
‘It is odd,’ continued Marshall, turning to Cohen, ‘that your race never takes any interest in politics.’
‘My race is not a nation, or, if a nation, has no national home. It took an interest in politics when it was in its own country, and produced some rather remarkable political writing.’
‘But why do you care so little for what is going on now?’
‘I do care, but all people are not born to be agitators, and, furthermore, I have doubts if the Charter will accomplish all you expect.’
‘I know what is coming’—Marshall took the pipe out of his mouth and spoke with perceptible sarcasm—‘the inefficiency of merely external remedies, the folly of any attempt at improvement which does not begin with the improvement of individual character, and that those to whom we intend to give power are no better than those from whom we intend to take it away. All very well, Mr Cohen. My answer is that at the present moment the stockingers in Leicester are earning four shillings and sixpence a week. It is not a question whether they are better or worse than their rulers. They want something to eat, they have nothing, and their masters have more than they can eat.’
‘Apart altogether from purely material reasons,’ said Dennis, ‘we have rights; we are born into this planet without our consent, and, therefore, we may make certain demands.’
‘Do you not think,’ said Clara, ‘that the repeal of the corn laws will help you?’
Dennis smiled and was about to reply, but Marshall broke out savagely,—