Maraton was silent. Lord Armley was watching him closely. Mr. Foley's
eyes were bright, and a little flush had stained the parchment pallor of
his cheeks. He was feeling all the thrill of the fencer who has
touched.

"I cannot convince you, Mr. Maraton," he went on, "that yours is not a
splendid dream, an idyllic vision, which would fade from the canvas
before even the colours were dry, but you have common sense, and I hope
at least I can persuade you to see this. You won't rally the working
men of England to your standard under that motto. That's why their
leaders are ignorant and commonplace men. They know very well that it's
to the pockets of their hearers they must appeal. A shilling a week
more now is what they want, not to have their children born to a better
life, and their children's children move on the upward plane. Human
nature isn't like that, especially the human nature which I admit has
suffered from the selfishness and greediness of the middle classes
through all these years. The people aren't ready to dream dreams. They
want money in their pockets, cash, so much a week--nothing else. I tell
you that self-interest is before the eyes of every one of those
Lancashire operatives to whom you are going to speak. An hour or so
less work a week, an ounce more of tobacco, a glass of beer when he
feels inclined, a little more money in the bank--that's what he wants."

"You may be speaking the truth, Mr. Foley," Maraton confessed quietly.
"At any rate, you have voiced some of my deepest fears. I know that I
cannot bring the people to my standard by showing them the whole of my
mind. But why should I? If I know that my cause is just, if I know
that it is for the good of the world, isn't it my duty to conceal as
much as I find it wise to conceal, to keep my hand to the plough, even
though I drive it through the fields of devastation?"