‘I am bitter against some of them--a pampered set of rich men, who never had a care in their lives, but don’t mind how many other people have to bear. There are some, now--Bright, and Cobden, and the like--for them I’d die. There’s that in their faces which says they have not a mean thought, nor a desire but for our good; but the most of them’--he shrugged his shoulders--‘those lily-handed politicians who call themselves Radicals in these days, and plan how to prevent a working-man from getting his beer, but have half a dozen sorts of wine at their own tables, and go mincing about at public meetings, talking lightly of trials that would make them cringe if they had to face them; talking about “supply and demand” and how to improve the conditions of the lower orders--isn’t that the phrase? Much they know about the lower orders, and how to improve them! They don’t know what ails them yet.’ He laughed sarcastically. ‘It is true, they are a somewhat emasculate type,’ said she; ‘but I don’t see what right you have to blame them much. It is the working-man’s own fault that they can do no more for him.’ ‘His own fault!’ he echoed incredulously. ‘Now don’t eat me up, please! I wonder if you and I differ essentially in first principles on this subject. You have thought about it, haven’t you?’ ‘Ay, I have. I’ve plenty of reason to think about it, when I see such fellows as Frederick Spenceley and young Mallory living on the fat of the land, without having lifted a finger to get it, or proved by a single act that they merited it.’ ‘Mr. Mallory,’ said Adrienne, slowly, ‘you say you have seen him: has he come home?’ ‘No. I meant to speak figuratively. I don’t see him; but I know it is so. If I don’t know him, I know the likes of him----’ ‘But--but what about him?’ she asked, still with the same slowness and a kind of hesitation. ‘What has he done wrong?’ ‘He has done nothing; that’s what he has done wrong,’ said Myles. ‘Well, he’s coming home soon; we shall see how he breasts the storm--for we are in for a storm, sooner or later. But don’t you think, Miss Blisset, it must make a man think to see these contrasts--a man who has the least bit of a power of thought?’ ‘No doubt. And what conclusion have you come to in the matter?’ ‘The conclusion that it’s a crying injustice.’ ‘To whom?’ ‘To--well, to put it broadly, we’ll say to the working-man--but I mean to those in general, who work very hard, and get very little.’ ‘In what way?’ ‘Miss Blisset! Where is the justice of fellows like that having that money without either rhyme or reason; and of fellows like----’ ‘You,’ suggested Adrienne, demurely. ‘I don’t mean me in particular, but my class in general, earning from thirty to sixty shillings a week--the very best paid of us--in payment for hours and hours of close, hard work.’ ‘I suppose it is not the work you object to?’ ‘No. I like work. I should be lost without my work.’