“Haven't I a right to take hold of life for myself at first hand? Haven't I a right to know the truth? What have I done that I should be walled off from all these people who earn the bread I eat?”
“But your friends... your father...”
Her ironic smile derided him. “So after all you haven't the courage of your convictions. Because I'm Peter C. Frome's daughter I'm not to have the right to live.”
“No, it's your right to take hold of life with both hands. But surely you must live it among your own people.”
“I've got to learn how to live it first, haven't I? Most of my friends are not even aware there a problem of poverty. They thrust the thought of it from them. Our wealthy class has no social consciousness. Take my father. He thinks the submerged are lost because they are thriftless and that all would be right if they wouldn't drink. To him they are just a waste product of civilization.
“But can you study the life of the people without growing discontented with the life you must lead?”
“There is a divine discontent, you know. I've got to see things for myself. Why should all my opinions, my faith, be given to me ready-made. Why must I live by a formula I have never examined? If it isn't true I want to know it. And if it is true I want to know it.” She had been looking straight before them toward the rising sun but now her gaze swept round on him. “Don't blame yourself for giving me new thoughts. I suppose all new ideas are likely to make trouble. But I've been working in this direction for years. Ever since I've been a little girl my heresies have puzzled my father. Meeting you has shown me a short cut. That's all.”
Something she had said recalled to him a fugitive memory.
“Do you know, I think I saw you once when you were a little bit of a thing?”
“Where?”