“Allan, in my soul, I am ashamed for you when I see you thus degrade your manhood.” “Nonsense, Mrs. Durham,” he replied, “the most beautiful flower grows in dirt, but the flower is not dirt.” “Well, I knew you were vain, but that caps the climax!” “Isn’t my figure true, whether you say I’m dog-fennel or a pink?” “No, you are not a flower. Will is the soul of man. The flower is ruled by laws outside itself. A man’s will is creative. You can make law. You can walk with your head among the stars, and you choose to crawl in a ditch. I am out of patience with you.” “But only for a purpose. You must judge by the end in view.” “There’s no need to stoop so low.” “I assure you it is absolutely necessary to my aims in life. And they are high enough. I appreciate your interest in me, more than I dare to tell you. You have always been kind to me since I was a wild red-headed brute of a boy. And you have always been my supreme inspiration in work. While others have cursed and scoffed you smiled at me and your smile has warmed my heart in its blackest nights.” She looked at him with a mother-like tenderness. “What ends could be high enough to justify such methods?” “I hate poverty and squalour. It’s been my fate. I’ve sworn to climb out of it, if I have to fight or buy my way through hell to do it. I dream of a palatial home, of soft white beds, grand banquet halls, and music and wine, and the faces of those I love near me. Besides, the work I am doing is the best for the state and the nation.” “But how can you walk arm in arm with a big black negro, as they say you do, to get his vote?” “Simply because they represent 120,000 votes I need. You can’t tell their colour when they get in the box. I use these fools as so many worms. My political creed is for public consumption only. I never allow anybody to impose on me. I don’t allow even Allan McLeod to deceive me with a paper platform, or a lot of articulated wind. I’m not a preacher.” She winced at that shot, blushed and looked at him curiously for a moment. “No, you are not a preacher. I wish you were a better man.” “So do I, when I am with you,” he answered in a low serious voice. “But I can’t get over the sense of personal degradation involved in your association with negroes as your equal,” she persisted. “The trouble is you’re an unreconstructed rebel. Women never really forgive a social wrong.” “I am unreconstructed,” she snapped with pride. “And you thank God daily for it, don’t you?” “Yes, I do. Human nature can’t be reconstructed by the fiat of fools who tinker with laws,” she cried. “These thousands of black votes are here. They’ve got to be controlled. I’m doing the job.” “You don’t try to get rid of them.”