if they permit tourists to look over the mansion."
Retracing his steps, Stranleigh threw away the stump of his cigar, and walked with head bent down, meditating upon the situation. Why, after all, should he trouble himself about this dull rural community, governed by a clique, as the farmer had said. Why not turn the business over to his legal advisers and let them fight it out; and, if the worst came to the worst, allow the cottages to be pulled down. It seemed a sad waste of money; but then he had plenty of it, so what difference? If the community wished to cut off its nose to spite its face, why interfere with the interesting process? Then his thoughts turned to the two farmers who had lunched with him; splendid specimens of independent, stalwart men, sane with the sanity of all out-doors; the common-sense of the open air, the fields, and the woods. Next his mind wandered to a vastly different type: to Stiles and the men he represented, working hard from dawn till dark for insufficient wages, on insufficient food; living in insanitary dwellings under conditions nothing like so luxurious as that enjoyed by Stranleigh's pigs at the Home Farm.
"I shall not back out now," he said to himself. "I should have turned those poor beggars away from my door if I didn't intend to keep my word with them."
