And in that moment his eyes were just as steady and sure.

There seemed a question in them this time, and as before he looked at me over long.
"I have been reading your 'Working-class Philosophy,'" I said, and his eyes lighted in a pleased way.
"Of course," he answered, "you took into consideration the audience to which it was addressed." "I did, and it is because I did that I have a quarrel with you," I challenged.
"I, too, have a quarrel with you, Mr.Everhard," Bishop Morehouse said.
Ernest shrugged his shoulders whimsically and accepted a cup of tea.
The Bishop bowed and gave me precedence.
"You foment class hatred," I said.

"I consider it wrong and criminal to appeal to all that is narrow and brutal in the working class.

Class hatred is anti-social, and, it seems to me, anti-socialistic." "Not guilty," he answered.

"Class hatred is neither in the text nor in the spirit of anything I have every written." "Oh!" I cried reproachfully, and reached for his book and opened it.
He sipped his tea and smiled at me while I ran over the pages.
"Page one hundred and thirty-two," I read aloud: "'The class struggle, therefore, presents itself in the present stage of social development between the wage-paying and the wage-paid classes.'" I looked at him triumphantly.
"No mention there of class hatred," he smiled back.
"But," I answered, "you say 'class struggle.'" "A different thing from class hatred," he replied.