“I!—­vote for an eight-hours day, by local and trade option!  In my opinion I might as well vote for striking the flag on the British Empire at once!  It would be the death-knell of all our prosperity.”

Wharton’s artistic ear disliked the mixture of metaphor, and he frowned slightly.

Mr. Bateson hurried on.  He was already excited, and had fallen upon Wharton as a prey.

“And you really desire to make it penal for us manufacturers—­for me in my industry—­in spite of all the chances and changes of the market, to work my men more than eight hours a day—­even if they wish it!”

“We must get our decision, our majority of the adult workers in any given district in favour of an eight-hours day,” said Wharton, blandly; “then when they have voted for it, the local authority will put the Act in motion.”

“And my men—­conceivably—­may have voted in the minority, against any such tomfoolery; yet, when the vote is given, it will be a punishable offence for them, and me, to work overtime?  You actually mean that; how do you propose to punish us?”

“Well,” said Wharton, relighting his cigarette, “that is a much debated point.  Personally, I am in favour of imprisonment rather than fine.”

The other bounded on his chair.

“You would imprison me for working overtime—­with willing men!”

Wharton eyed him with smiling composure.  Two or three other men—­an old general, the smart private secretary of a cabinet minister, and a well-known permanent official at the head of one of the great spending departments—­who were sitting grouped at the end of the table a few feet away, stopped their conversation to listen.

“Except in cases of emergency, which are provided for under the Act,” said Wharton.  “Yes, I should imprison you, with the greatest pleasure in life.  Eight hours plus overtime is what we are going to stop, at all hazards!”

A flash broke from his blue eyes.  Then he tranquilly resumed his smoking.

The young manufacturer flushed with angry agitation.

“But you must know, it is inconceivable that you should not know, that the whole thing is stark staring lunacy.  In our business, trade is declining, the export falling every year, the imports from France steadily advancing.  And you are going to make us fight a country where men work eleven hours a day, for lower wages, with our hands tied behind our backs by legislation of this kind?  Well, you know,” he threw himself back in his chair with a contemptuous laugh, “there can be only one explanation.  You and your friends, of course, have banished political economy to Saturn—­and you suppose that by doing so you get rid of it for all the rest of the world.  But I imagine it will beat you, all the same!”

He stopped in a heat.  As usual what he found to say was not equal to what he wanted to say, and beneath his anger with Wharton was the familiar fuming at his own lack of impressiveness.