“It was not exactly easy work—­up there,” he said.

She noticed the repression.

“Tell me all about it,” she begged.

His thoughts surged back to those three weeks of tragedy.  His personal misery became for the moment a shadowy thing.  The sorrows of one man, what were they to the breaking hearts of millions?  He thought of the children, and he shuddered.

“It isn’t so much to tell,” he said.  “I have been to a dozen or so of the largest towns in the North, and have taken the manufacturers one by one.  I have taken their wage sheets and compared them with past years.  The result was always the same.  Less money distributed amongst more people.  Afterwards we went amongst the people themselves—­to see how they lived.  It was like a chapter from the inferno—­an epic of loathsome tragedy.  I have seen the children, Berenice, and God help the next generation.”

“You must not forget, Lawrence,” she said, “that character is an essential factor in poverty.  Poverty there must always be, because of the idle and shiftless.”

“Individual poverty, yes,” he answered.  “Not wholesale poverty, not streets of it, towns of it.  I don’t talk about starving people, although I saw them too.  Our vicious charitable system may keep their cry from our ears, but my sympathies go out to the man who ought to be earning two pounds a week, and who is earning fifteen shillings; the man who used to have his bit of garden, and smoke, and Sunday clothes, and a day or so’s holiday now and then.  He was a contented, decent, God-fearing citizen, the backbone of the whole nation, and he has been blotted away from the face of the earth.  They work now passively, like dumb brutes, to resist starvation, and human character isn’t strong enough for such a strain.  The public houses thrive, and the pawnshops are full.  But the children haven’t enough to eat.  They are growing up lank, white, prematurely aged, the spectres to dance us statesmen down into hell.”

“You are overwrought, dear,” she said, gently.  “You have been in the hands of a man whose object it was to show you only one side of all this.”

“I have sought for the truth,” Mannering answered, “and I have seen it.  I have learned more in three weeks than all the Commissions and statistics and Board-of-Trade figures have taught me in five years.”

“And yet,” she said, thoughtfully, “you hesitated about that last Navy vote.  Don’t you see that the imperialism which you are a little disposed to shrug your shoulders at is the most logical and complete cure for all this?  We must extend and maintain our colonies, and people them with our surplus population.”

He shook his head.

“That is not a policy which would ever appeal to me,” he answered.  “It is like an external operation to remove a malady which is of internal origin.  Either our social laws or our political systems are at fault when our trade leaves us, and our labouring classes are unable to earn a fair wage.  That is the position we are in to-day.”