ALICE. Am I? Am I playing upon your senses in any way? Am I a silly child looking to you for protection in return for your favour? Shall I hinder or help your life? If you don't think me your equal as woman to man, we'll never speak of this again. But if you do . . look at me and make your choice. To refuse me my work and happiness in life and to cripple your own nature . . or to take my hand. _She puts out her hand frankly, as a friend should. With only a second's thought he, happy too now, takes it as frankly. Then she sits beside him and quite cheerfully changes the subject._ ALICE. Now, referring to the subject of Mr. George Booth. What will he do? EDWARD. [_responsive though impatient._] He'll do nothing. I shall be before him. ALICE. What about his proposal? EDWARD. That needs no answer. ALICE. Yes, it does. I know the temptation to hit back at him mock-heroically . . it's natural. Well, we'll consider it done. But he's a silly old man and he doesn't know what he's talking about. I think we can bargain with him to keep the firm going somehow . . and if we can we must. _At this_ EDWARD _makes a last attempt to abandon himself to his troubles_. EDWARD. No, Alice, no . . let it end here. It has done for me . . I'm broken. And of course we can't be married . . that's absurd. ALICE. [_with firmness enough for two._] We shall be married. And nothing's broken . . except our pride and righteousness . . and several other things we're better without. And now we must break our dignity in to bargaining. EDWARD. [_struggling in the toils of virtue._] But it'll be so useless. Colpus'll be round in a day or two to make his conditions . . he'll tell some intimate friend. They'll all come after their money like wasps after honey. And if they know I won't lift a finger in my own defence . . what sort of mercy will they have? ALICE. [_triumphantly completing her case._] No, Edward, if you surrender yourself entirely, you'll find them powerless against you. You see, you had something to hope or fear from Mr. Booth . . you hoped in your heart he'd end your trouble. But when you've conquered that last little atom of the selfishness which gets in one's way, I think you'll find you can do what you wish with these selfish men. [_and she adds fervently._] Oh, it's a power so seldom used. But the man who is able, and cares deeply, and yet has nothing to hope or fear is all powerful . . even in little things. EDWARD. Will nothing ever happen to set me free? Shall I never be able to rest for a moment . . turn round and say I've succeeded or I've failed? ALICE. That isn't what matters. EDWARD. If they could all meet and agree, they might syndicate themselves and keep me at it for life. ALICE. What more could you wish for? EDWARD. Than that dreary round! ALICE. My dear, the world must be put tidy. That's the work which splendid criminals . . and others leave about for us poor commonplace people to do.