sort of suffering. Isn't it so?"

I did not answer; the illustration was too abominably just. It was just
that. There were even now all these people--these Legitimists--sneering
ineffectually; shutting themselves away from the light in their mournful
houses and suffering horribly because everything that they stood for had
gone under.

"But even if I believe you," I said, "the thing is too horrible, and
your tools are too mean; that man who has just gone out and--and
Callan--are they the weapons of the inevitable? After all, the
Revolution ..." I was striving to get back to tangible ideas--ideas that
one could name and date and label ... "the Revolution was noble in
essence and made for good. But all this of yours is too vile and too
petty. You are bribing, or something worse, that man to betray his
master. And that you call helping on the inevitable...."

"They used to say just that of the Revolution. That wasn't nice of its
tools. Don't you see? They were the people that went under.... They
couldn't see the good...."

"And I--I am to take it on trust," I said, bitterly.

"You couldn't see the good," she answered, "it isn't possible, and there
is no way of explaining. Our languages are different, and there's no
bridge--no bridge at all. We _can't_ meet...."

It was that revolted me. If there was no bridge and we could not meet,
we must even fight; that is, if I believed her version of herself. If I
did not, I was being played the fool with. I preferred to think that. If