"It strikes me as a sort of community," said MacLeod. "Everybody at work and everything in common."
"Now, why does it strike you that everything is in common? The place is mine."
"Ah, my dear fellow!" MacLeod forgot the simplicity of the moment and put on his platform voice. "Nothing is ours."
Osmond regarded him with a slow smile coming,—his perfect clothes, his white hand, his air of luxurious equipment.
"Isn't it?" he asked ironically. "Well, it looks mighty like it. But I haven't any data. I know what goes on inside my own fences. I don't know much more. What do you want of Peter?"
"To-day?"
"Any time. All the time. He has joined your league. What do you intend to do with him?"
MacLeod put his hands in his pockets and stretched his legs a little farther. He regarded the outer circle of hills, and then brought his gaze back over the pleasant rolling land between. Finally he looked at Osmond and smiled at him in what seemed a community of feeling.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I am not considering the individual."
"I am," said Osmond, with an offensive bluntness. "I am considering Peter. What are you going to do with him?"