He had not returned to the Court until late in the afternoon, but having heard in the village the rumour of the outbreak of fever, he had made inquiries and gathered detail.
“You are thinking of the outbreak of typhoid among the hop pickers?” said Lady Anstruthers. “Mrs. Brent thinks it threatens to be very serious.”
“An epidemic, without a doubt,” he answered. “In a wretched unsanitary place like Dunstan village, the wretches will die like flies.”
“What will be done?” inquired Betty.
He gave her one of the unpleasant personal glances and laughed derisively.
“Done? The county authorities, who call themselves 'guardians,' will be frightened to death and will potter about and fuss like old women, and profess to examine and protect and lay restrictions, but everyone will manage to keep at a discreet distance, and the thing will run riot and do its worst. As far as one can see, there seems no reason why the whole place should not be swept away. No doubt Mount Dunstan has wisely taken to his heels already.”
“I think that, on the contrary, there would be much doubt of that,” Betty said. “He would stay and do what he could.”
Sir Nigel shrugged his shoulders.
“Would he? I think you'll find he would not.”
“Mrs. Brent tells me,” Rosalie broke in somewhat hurriedly, “that the huts for the hoppers are in the worst possible condition. They are so dilapidated that the rain pours into them. There is no proper shelter for the people who are ill, and Lord Mount Dunstan cannot afford to take care of them.”