"Yes; and it's frightfully hard, isn't it?"

"Exactly," Mr. Cuthcott answered. "That's why people devised religions
and other ways of having the thing done second-hand. We all object to
trouble and responsibility if we can possibly avoid it. Where do you
live?"

"In Hampstead."

"Your father must be a stand-by, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes; Dad's splendid; only, you see, I AM a good deal younger than
he. There was just one thing I was going to ask you. Are these very
Bigwigs?"

Mr. Cuthcott turned to the room and let his screwed-up glance wander. He
looked just then particularly as if he were going to bite.

"If you take 'em at their own valuation: Yes. If at the country's:
So-so. If at mine: Ha! I know what you'd like to ask: Should I be a
Bigwig in THEIR estimation? Not I! As you knock about, Miss Freeland,
you'll find out one thing--all bigwiggery is founded on: Scratch my
back, and I'll scratch yours. Seriously, these are only tenpenny ones;
but the mischief is, that in the matter of 'the Land,' the men who
really are in earnest are precious scarce. Nothing short of a rising
such as there was in 1832 would make the land question real, even for
the moment. Not that I want to see one--God forbid! Those poor doomed
devils were treated worse than dogs, and would be again."