"Well, perhaps not; especially if you're a Frémonter."
"I am, I assure you."
"Thought as much, by your looks. Don't see what else an honest man can be just now."
Stangrave laughed. "I hope every one thinks so in England."
"Trust us for that, sir! We know a man when we see him here; I hope they'll do the same across the water."
There was silence for a minute or two; and then Mark began again.
"Look!—there's the farm; that's my lord's. I should like to show you the short-horns there, sir!—all my Lord Ducie's and Sir Edward Knightley's stock; bought a bull-calf of him the other day myself for a cool hundred, old fool that I am. Never mind, spreads the breed. And here are mills—four pair of new stones. Old Whit don't know herself again. But I dare say they look small enough to you, sir, after your American water-power."
"What of that? It is just as honourable in you to make the most of a small river, as in us to make the most of a large one."
"You speak like a book, sir. By the by, if you think of taking home a calf or two, to improve your New England breed—there are a good many gone across the sea in the last few years—I think we could find you three or four beauties, not so very dear, considering the blood."
"Thanks; but I really am no farmer."