“That certainly makes the task of arguing with you a little difficult,” Mr. Foley admitted.  “We had hoped that the vision of this country overrun by a triumphant enemy, our towns and our pleasant places in the hands of an alien race, our women subject to insults from them, our men treated with scorn—­we had an idea that the vision of these things might count with you for something.”

“For nothing at all,” Maraton replied.  “I am not sure that a successful invasion of this country would not be one of the best medicines she could possibly have.”

“Are you serious, sir?” Lord Armley asked grimly.

“Absolutely,” Maraton answered, without a second’s hesitation.  “You people have, after all, only an external feeling for the deficiencies of your social system.  You don’t feel, really—­you don’t understand.  To me, England at the present day—­the whole of civilization, indeed, but we are speaking now only of England—­is suffering from an awful disease.  To me she is like a leper.  I cannot think that any operation which could cure her is too severe.  She may have to spend centuries in the hospital, but some day the light will come.”

“When you talk like that,” Mr. Foley declared, “you seem to us, Mr. Maraton, to pass outside the pale of logical argument.  But we want to understand you.  You mean that for the sake of altering our social conditions, you would, if you thought it necessary, let this country be conquered, plunge her for a hundred years or more into misery deeper than any she has yet known?  What good do you suppose could come of this?  The poor who are poor now would starve then.  From whom would come the mammoth war indemnity we should have to pay?”

“Not from the poor,” Maraton replied.  “That is one of my theories.  It would come from the very class whom I would willingly see enfeebled—­the greedy, grasping, middle class.  The poor must exist automatically.  They could not exist on lower wages; therefore, they will not get lower wages.  If there is no employment for them, they will help themselves to the means for life.  If there is money in the country, they have a right to a part of it and they will take it.  The unfit amongst them will die.  The unfit are better dead.”

“This is a dangerous doctrine, Mr. Maraton,” Lord Armley remarked.

“It is a primitive law,” Maraton answered.  “Put yourself down amongst the people, with a wife by your side and children crying to you for bread.  Would you call yourself a man if you let them starve, if you sent your children sobbing away from you when there was bread to be had for the fighting, bread to be taken from those who had also meat?  I think not.  I am not afraid of plunging the country into disaster.  It is my belief that the sufferings and the loss which would ensue would not fall upon the class who are already dwelling in misery.”

Mr. Foley moved nervously to the mantelpiece and helped himself to a cigarette.