“Ah, you are commending the artistic discernment of the British Public which--at present--is an honour the B. P. does not deserve. It will come round ultimately--the great B. P. always does--but not yet, my boy, not yet. Give it time, and it will pour cash in your lap. I regret that the moment--how shall I put it?--well, up to date, has not arrived. The workmen whom you honour by associating with, at present supply--as with perhaps unnecessary bluntness you state it--the financial deficiency. But the public will pay for it all in the end--every penny of it, my boy. You see these pictures around the walls? Very well; I hold them at two thousand pounds each. I find little difficulty in so holding them, for no section of the great British Public has, up to the present time, evinced any dogged desire to wrench them from me in exchange for so much gold. What is the consequence? I shall increase the price five hundred pounds every year, and the longer they hold off, the bigger sum they will have to pay, and serve them jolly well right, say I. Ten pictures twenty thousand pounds--this year. Next year twenty-five thousand pounds, and so on. With property on my hands increasing at that rate, I should be an idiot to urge people to buy. Ground rents in Belgravia are not in it with my pictures as investments. So you see, Mars-ten, when my day comes, the factory will be a mere triviality as an income producer compared with my brush, don’t you know.” “But in the meantime?” “In the meantime, I am getting along very nicely, thank you. The strike will not affect me in the least. The men may have to diminish the amount of shag or whatever awful mixture they smoke, but I shall not consume one cigarette the less. I have done nothing to bring on this struggle. If the men want to fight, then, by jingo! let them, say I.” “The fight is not yet actually on and won’t be until Saturday. Now is the time for a cool-headed man to interfere and bring about an amicable understanding. Won’t you at least make the attempt, Mr. Hope?” “My dear Marsten, the way of the self-appointed arbitrator is hard. I was reading in this morning’s paper about your charming meeting, last night, and I noticed that one man who interfered was kicked off the platform and thrown out into a side street. That is the workingman’s idea of how an intellectual discussion should be terminated. I love the workingman myself, but I sometimes wish he would not argue with his hob-nailed boot. By the way, did you see this interesting episode? You were there, I suppose?”