"Well, they wöan't wark fur me of their free will. Lard knows I've tried to interest 'em...." "But how can you expect them to be interested? Your ambition means nothing to them." "It ought to--Odiam's their home jest as it's mine." "But don't you see that you've forced them to give up all the sweet things of life for it?--Robert his love, and Albert his poetry, and Richard his education." "Well, I gave up all the sweet things of life, as you call 'em--and why shudn't they?" "Because you gave those things up of your free will--they were made to give them up by force. You've no right to starve and deny other people as you have to starve and deny yourself." "I döan't see that. Wot I can do, they can." "But--as experience has taught you--they won't. You can see now what your slave-driving's brought you to--you've lost your slaves." "Well, and I reckon they wurn't much loss, nuther"--the caustic was healing after all--"Robert wur a fool wot didn't know how to steal a ten-pound note, Albert wur always mooning and wasting his time, and George wur a pore thing not worth his keep. As for Richard--that Richard--who wants a stuck-up, dentical, high-nosed, genteel swell about the pläace? I reckon as I'm well shut of the whole four of 'em. They wurn't worth the food they ate, surelye!" "That's what strikes me as so pathetic." "Wot?" "That you should be able to comfort yourself with the thought that they weren't worth much to you as a farmer. What were they worth to you as a father?" "Naun." "Quite so--and that's what makes me pity you," and suddenly her eyes kindled, blazed, as with her spirit itself for fuel--"I pity you, I pity you--poor, poor man!" "Adone do wud that--though you sound more as if you wur in a black temper wud me than as if you pitied me." "I am angry with you just because I pity you. It's a shame that I should have to pity you--you're such a splendid man. It ought to be impossible to pity you, but I do--I pity you from my soul. Think what you're missing. Think what your children might have been to you. How you might have loved that dear stupid Robert--how proud you might have been of Albert, and of Richard leaving you for a professional career ... and poor little George, just because he was weak and unlike the rest, he might have been more to you than them all. Then there's your brother Harry----" "Come, come--stick to the truth. I äun't to blame for Harry." "But can't you see that he's the chief part of the tragedy you're bringing on yourself and everyone?--He's the type, he's the chorus, the commentary on every act. Reuben, can't you see--oh, why won't you see?--he's you, yourself, as you really are!" "Nonsense!--döan't be a fool, my gal." "Yes--you--blind, crazy with your ambition, repulsive and alone in it. Don't you see?" He smiled grimly--"I döan't."