He had taken a fair degree at Cambridge, spent two or three years studying engineering in Germany, another twelve months in a leisurely tour through the United States, returning in time to take part in the contemplated social movement.
The young man regarded the undertaking with interest, mingled with misgivings. He was not free from the somewhat indolent, supercilious spirit with which young men of means are prone to regard social questions. He had no great admiration for the working-classes, deemed them dissatisfied without cause, given to intrigue and agitation—not over fond of work. He did not consider that, though existing social conditions suited him, they might be nevertheless imposing intolerable burdens on others less favoured; that the class to which he belonged was not, by nature, any more in love with labour, for its own sake, than the so-called "labouring classes." They, he thought, should be content to toil twelve hours a day, and be thankful for the privilege of doing so. Travers' disposition was, at the same time, generous as his father's, and the thought of the "desolate and oppressed" ever touched a vibrating chord in his heart.
In the course of the repast, the doctor, with pardonable pride, escorted his intelligent-looking if not actually handsome son, from table to table, and introduced him to some of the company.
"I must take you to an interesting group," said he. "The man talking and eating so energetically at the head of that table is my right-hand man—an important personage in his own estimation, but useful to me. On the right is his daughter."
"I thought her one of the ladies," remarked the son. "Not a bad-looking girl. Observe the grace with which she is addressing that greasy-looking personage."
