...
From the baby's funeral Hilary and Martin walked away together, and far
behind them, across the road, the little model followed. For some time
neither spoke; then Hilary, stretching out his hand towards a squalid
alley, said:
"They haunt us and drag us down. A long, dark passage. Is there a light
at the far end, Martin?"
"Yes," said Martin gruffly.
"I don't see it."
Martin looked at him.
"Hamlet!"
Hilary did not reply.
The young man watched him sideways. "It's a disease to smile like that!"
Hilary ceased to smile. "Cure me, then," he said, with sudden anger,
"you man of health!"
The young "Sanitist's" sallow cheeks flushed. "Atrophy of the nerve of
action," he muttered; "there's no cure for that!"
"Ah!" said Hilary: "All kinds of us want social progress in our
different ways. You, your grandfather, my brother, myself; there are
four types for you. Will you tell me any one of us is the right man for
the job? For instance, action's not natural to me."
"Any act," answered Martin, "is better than no act."
"And myopia is natural to you, Martin. Your prescription in this case
has not been too successful, has it?"
"I can't help it if people will be d---d fools."
"There you hit it. But answer me this question: Isn't a social
conscience, broadly speaking, the result of comfort and security?"
Martin shrugged his shoulders.
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