‘The property which those young men enjoy has been earned with trouble as great, or probably, from an intellectual point of view, greater than your weekly wages.’ ‘But not by them.’ ‘Suppose it had been earned by you, and you wished to leave it to your only son, whom you had educated with a view to his inheriting it, and the law stepped in and said you should not, but should leave it amongst a number of working-people whom you had never seen or heard of--how would you like that?’ ‘But that is an exaggerated view of the case.’ ‘I don’t see it. I don’t believe you have ever considered the subject fairly. And answer me this; suppose the average working-man became possessed of that money, or of part of it--_money which he had not earned_--money which had become his by a lucky chance: do you think his use of it would be worse, or as good as, or better, than the use made of it by those two of whom we are speaking? Do you think it would do him a real and permanent good: increase his self-respect, lessen his self-indulgence, make him steadier, soberer, more inwardly dignified, worthy, and honourable?’ She was looking earnestly at him, and Myles frowned, the words driven back from his lips. Did he know one man amongst his fellow-workman on whom the possession of such money would have such an effect? Would it have such an effect upon himself? The generalities of the writers who cried up the working-man and his wrongs seemed suddenly to grow small, and to shrink into the background. ‘Oh,’ went on Adrienne, ‘I don’t think you working-men know in the least how noble your work intrinsically is. You only see that others are outwardly better off than you, and you clamorously demand a share of that wealth. You don’t see how disastrous to your best interests such an acquisition would be.’ Myles had started up, feeling terribly humiliated. ‘You think so ill of us!’ he exclaimed. ‘You could come and see us yesterday, and talk to my sister as if she had been your sister--and now you reproach us in this way. Good-bye!’ ‘Stop!’ said she, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking earnestly into his face. ‘How wild and impatient you are! Think a moment! It is not of _you_ I am speaking. Do you know any other working-man to whom I could speak in this way?’ She paused. It was true. Perhaps Harry Ashworth might hear those words and bear them--he knew of no other who would do so; and while he was stung and tortured by what she said, he felt a bitter consciousness that it was true. But he stood still, and waited to hear the end.