He was clearly interested.
“And now?” he prompted her.
She laughed a little, to relieve the tension.
“Well—I've found out that there are some men that kind of power can't control—the best kind. And I've found out that that isn't the best kind of power. It seems to be a brutal, barbarous cunning power now that I've seen it at close range. There's another kind that springs from a man himself, that speaks through his works and acts, that influences first those around him, and then his community, convincing people of their own folly, and that finally spreads in ever widening circles to those whom he cannot see, and never will see.”
She paused, breathing deeply, a little frightened at her own eloquence. Something told her that she was not only addressing her own soul—she was speaking to his.
“I'm afraid you'll think I'm preaching,” she apologized.
“No,” he said impatiently, “no.”
“To answer your question, then, if I were a man of independent means, I think I should go into politics. And I should put on my first campaign banner the words, 'No Compromise.'”
It was a little strange that, until now—to-night-she had not definitely formulated these ambitions. The idea of the banner with its inscription had come as an inspiration. He did not answer, but sat regarding her, drumming on the cloth with his strong, brown fingers.
“I have learned this much in New York,” she said, carried on by her impetus, “that men and women are like plants. To be useful, and to grow properly, they must be firmly rooted in their own soil. This city seems to me like a luxurious, overgrown hothouse. Of course,” she added hastily, “there are many people who belong here, and whose best work is done here. I was thinking about those whom it attracts. And I have seen so many who are only watered and fed and warmed, and who become—distorted.”