There is only one way of treating “men”—­with the iron hand.  This half and half business, the half and half manners of this generation, has brought all this upon us.  Sentiment and softness, and what this young man, no doubt, would call his social policy.  You can’t eat cake and have it!  This middle-class sentiment, or socialism, or whatever it may be, is rotten.  Masters are masters, men are men!  Yield one demand, and they will make it six.  They are [he smiles grimly] like Oliver Twist, asking for more.  If I were in their place I should be the same.  But I am not in their place.  Mark my words:  one fine morning, when you have given way here, and given way there—­you will find you have parted with the ground beneath your feet, and are deep in the bog of bankruptcy; and with you, floundering in that bog, will be the very men you have given way to.  I have been accused of being a domineering tyrant, thinking only of my pride—­I am thinking of the future of this country, threatened with the black waters of confusion, threatened with mob government, threatened with what I cannot see.  If by any conduct of mine I help to bring this on us, I shall be ashamed to look my fellows in the face.

     [Anthony stares before him, at what he cannot see, and there is
     perfect stillness.  Frost comes in from the hall, and all but
     Anthony look round at him uneasily.]

Frost. [To his master.] The men are here, sir. [Anthony makes a gesture of dismissal.] Shall I bring them in, sir?

Anthony.  Wait!

     [Frost goes out, Anthony turns to face his son.]

I come to the attack that has been made upon me.

     [Edgar, with a gesture of deprecation, remains motionless with
     his head a little bowed.]

A woman has died.  I am told that her blood is on my hands; I am told that on my hands is the starvation and the suffering of other women and of children.

Edgar.  I said “on our hands,” sir.

Anthony.  It is the same. [His voice grows stronger and stronger, his feeling is more and more made manifest.] I am not aware that if my adversary suffer in a fair fight not sought by me, it is my fault.  If I fall under his feet—­as fall I may—­I shall not complain.  That will be my look-out—­and this is—­his.  I cannot separate, as I would, these men from their women and children.  A fair fight is a fair fight!  Let them learn to think before they pick a quarrel!

Edgar. [In a low voice.] But is it a fair fight, Father?  Look at them, and look at us!  They’ve only this one weapon!

Anthony. [Grimly.] And you’re weak-kneed enough to teach them how to use it!  It seems the fashion nowadays for men to take their enemy’s side.  I have not learnt that art.  Is it my fault that they quarrelled with their Union too?