highly-cultivated field, men were working. It was cut off in squares and
patches. It had an air which struck Gaston as unusual; why, he could not
tell. But he had a strange divining instinct, or whatever it may be
called. He made for the field and questioned the workmen.

The field was cut up into allotment gardens. Here, at a nominal rent,
the cottager could grow his vegetables; a little spot of the great acre
of England, which gave the labourer a tiny sense of ownership, of
manhood. Gaston was interested. More, he was determined to carry that
experiment further, if he ever got the chance. There was no socialism
in him. The true barbarian is like the true aristocrat: more a giver of
gifts than a lover of co-operation; conserving ownership by right of
power and superior independence, hereditary or otherwise. Gaston was
both barbarian and aristocrat.

"Brillon," he said, as they walked on, "do you think they would be
happier on the prairies with a hundred acres of land, horses, cows,
and a pen of pigs?"

"Can I be happy here all at once, sir?"

"That's just it. It's too late for them. They couldn't grasp it unless
they went when they were youngsters. They'd long for 'Home and Old
England' and this grub-and-grind life. Gracious heaven, look at them--
crumpled-up creatures! And I'll stake my life, they were as pretty
children as you'd care to see. They are out of place in the landscape,
Brillon; for it is all luxury and lush, and they are crumples--crumples!
But yet there isn't any use being sorry for them, for they don't grasp
anything outside the life they are living. Can't you guess how they
live? Look at the doors of the houses shut, and the windows sealed;