“Foolish beggars! What are they going to do that for, and what do you expect me to do? Not to talk to the men, I hope, for I detest the workingman. He’s an ass usually, otherwise he wouldn’t work for the wages he gets. Then he spends what he does make on bad beer and goes home and beats his wife. I can’t reason with the workingman, you know, mater.” “No, I don’t suppose you can. I sometimes doubt whether you can reason with anybody. It is because the workingman labours that you can idle away your time in a place like this. There are many deserving characters among the working classes, although they are often difficult to find. The men have made-some demands which Sartwell, the manager, won’t even listen to. It seems to me that he is not treating them fairly. He should, at least, hear what they have to say, and if their demands do not cost the firm anything; he should grant them.” “Mater,” cried the young man, with enthusiasm, “what a head for business you have!” “I am of a family that became rich through having heads for business,” replied the lady, with justifiable pride. “Now, what I want you to do is to see this man Sartwell; he will pay attention to you because he knows that in time you will be his master, and so he will be civil to you.” “I’m not so sure of that,” said Barney, doubtfully. “I imagine he thinks me rather an ass, you know.” “Well, now is your opportunity for showing him you are not, if he has the impertinence to think such a thing. You must see him at his own house and not at the office--here is his address. Tell him to receive the men and make a compromise with them. He is to make concessions that are unimportant, and thus effect a compromise. A little tact is all that is required.” “From me, or from Sartwell?” “From both of you. I expect tact from you because you are my son.” “But why doesn’t father talk to Sartwell? I know nothing of the business, and father does; it seems to be entirely in his line, don’t you know?” “Your father, Barnard, is a timorous man, and he actually is afraid of his manager. He thinks it is interference and doesn’t want to meddle, so he says, as if a man were meddling in looking after his own affairs! He fears Sartwell will resign, but that kind of man knows where his own interest lies. I’ll risk his resigning, and I want you to see him at his house, for it is no use bothering your father about these things.” “I don’t like the job, mater; it does look like interference.” Mrs. Hope again raised her lorgnette by its long tortoise-shell handle, and once more surveyed the studio. “This must have cost you a good deal of money, Barnard,” she said, impartially. “It did,” admitted the young man. “I suppose I shall soon have to be writing another cheque for you. For how much shall I make it?” “It is such a pity to trouble you so often, mater,” replied the young man, “that perhaps we had better say three hundred.”