Lady Mary rose to leave the room, as mother and son had evidently something to discuss together. “Sit down, child,” said Mrs. Hope. “It is nothing private. The men at the ‘works’ talk of going on strike. The manager is a stubborn, unyielding man, given even to browbeating his employers--” “Bullying, I call it,” interrupted Barney, who now stood with his back to the fire, his feet well apart on the hearth-rug. His mother went on calmly, without noticing her son’s interpolation--“So it seems to me that such a man, utterly lacking in tact, might not perhaps be mindful of the feelings of those under him. We all have our duties towards the working class, a fact many, alas! appear to forget.” Lady Mary said softly, with her eyes cast down, that this was indeed the case. “So you saw Mr. Sartwell, Barnard?” “Oh, yes, I saw Sartwell, and had a talk with some of the men--with the--ah--ringleaders, don’t you know.” “You mean the leaders, Barnard.” “Yes, something of that sort. I don’t pretend to understand the bally workingman, you know, but there’s lots of sense in what they say. They know what they want.” “Did you find Mr. Sartwell obdurate?” “Oh, bless you, no, mater. Sartwell’s the most reasonable of men.” “Indeed? It never occurred to me to place him in that category.” “Don’t you make any mistake about Sartwell, mater; you won’t find him stand in your way at all. He’s perfectly willing to do whatever you want done. ‘Barney, my boy,’ he said to me, when I told him what you thought about this trouble, ‘Barney,’ says he, ‘after all is said and done, it’s the women’s affair more than ours.’” “The women’s affair!” said Mrs. Hope, drawing herself severely up. “Do I understand you to mean, Barnard, that the man was referring to Mrs. Monkton and myself?” “Well, mater, you see we were talking freely together as man to man--and--hang it all! you know, it _is_ your affair and Mrs. Monkton’s, more than old Monkton’s and father’s. I don’t suppose they care so very much.” Mrs. Hope slowly raised her glasses to her eyes and stared at her son, who was looking at the hearth-rug now, resting his weight on his toes and then coming down on his heels. “I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about, Barnard.” “I am talking about the proposed strike, mater; about the demands of the men.” “Requests, my son. The men request an audience with Mr. Sartwell, and he refuses it, as if he were Prime Minister.” “That’s just what I said to Sartwell. ‘Sartwell,’ said I, ‘you’re high-handed with the men.’ He admitted it, but held that if he had a conference with them, no good would be accomplished unless he acceeded to their dem----requests.” “He could compromise--he could make some concessions and then everything would go smoothly again. He has no tact.”