that sort of man. I hate individualism; it's ruining England. You won't
fend better cottages, or better farm-buildings anywhere than on my
estate. I go in for centralisation. I dare say you know what I call
myself--a 'Tory Communist.' To my mind, that's the party of the future.
Now, your father's motto was: 'Every man for himself!' On the land that
would never do. Landlord and tenant must work together. You'll come over
to Newmarket with us on Wednesday? George has a very fine horse running
in the Rutlandshire a very fine horse. He doesn't bet, I'm glad to say.
If there's one thing I hate more than another, it's gambling!"

Mrs. Bellew gave him a sidelong glance, and a little ironical smile
peeped out on her full red lips. But Mr. Pendyce had been called away to
his soup. When he was ready to resume the conversation she was talking
to his son, and the Squire, frowning, turned to the Hon. Mrs. Winlow.
Her attention was automatic, complete, monosyllabic; she did not appear
to fatigue herself by an over-sympathetic comprehension, nor was she
subservient. Mr. Pendyce found her a competent listener.

"The country is changing," he said, "changing every day. Country houses
are not what they were. A great responsibility rests on us landlords. If
we go, the whole thing goes."

What, indeed, could be more delightful than this country-house life of
Mr. Pendyce; its perfect cleanliness, its busy leisure, its combination
of fresh air and scented warmth, its complete intellectual repose, its
essential and professional aloofness from suffering of any kind, and its
soup--emblematically and above all, its soup--made from the rich remains
of pampered beasts?

Mr. Pendyce thought this life the one right life; those who lived it the