“An’ in the meantime,” urged Conover, with merciless logic. “In the meantime, she’s to have the pleasure of sittin’ by, eatin’ her heart out, waitin’--waitin’--growin’ older ev’ry year,--losin’ good chances,--bein’ side-tracked at parties an’ so on, because she’s engaged an’ no longer in the marriage market,--waitin’ year after year--maybe till all her prettiness an’ her youth’s gone--just on the chance that you’ll some day be able to support a wife? You don’t mean to be crooked. You’re only just foolish. But look the thing in the eyes an’ tell me: Is it square? Is it an honest bargain you offer? Aren’t you cheatin’ the one girl in the world you ought to do most for?” “But with such an incentive,” pleaded the boy, “I’d _surely_ make my way quickly. In a year at most! I’d work--I’d work so _hard_ for her!” Caleb leaned to one side and threw open the window by his desk. With the warm, soft air of Spring rushed in the steam sibilance and clangor of the railway yards. “Look down there!” ordered Conover, pointing out, “More’n a hundred men in that yard, ain’t there? Dirty-faced men with stooped shoulders an’ soiled clothes. Not a one of ’em that’s got a fam’ly resemblance to Romeo. What are they doin’? _Workin’!_ Every mother’s son of ’em workin’ harder than you or any of your fam’ly ever worked or ever _could_ work. How’d their faces get dirty an’ stoopid an’ their shoulders bent over? By workin’. An’ who are they workin’ for? For themselves? Not them. Each one of ’em’s workin’ for some woman. An’ most of ’em for a bunch of measly kids as well. Workin’ all day an’ ev’ry day, till they drop dead or wear out an’ go to the poorhouse. An’ the women they work for are workin’ too. Workin’ at washboard or scrub-brush to eke out the men-folks’ an’ brats’ livin’. Work! Work! Work! All their lives. But I don’t see any of ’em gatherin’ in front of the footlights an’ singin’ a chorus about how happy they are, or how their hard work has made their wives rich an’ lazy. Are you any better’n they are? Can you work any harder for Desirée than _they_ are workin’ for the slatternly, slab-sided, down-at-heel women at home? Don’t you s’pose every one of those men once planned to make his wife a lady an’ to ‘cons’crate his toil’ to her? Think it over, son; an’ get a better argument than the silly fact that you’re willin’ to do your dooty by _workin’_ for Desirée. Hell’s full of workers.” “It all seems so horrible--so gross--so material!” muttered the boy. “But--but you’re right, sir. I can see it now. Still--” He stretched his hands out before him in an impulsive gesture of despair.