"I expected that. There'll no doubt be more remarks when I break the piece of stiff gumbo on Lance's holding."
Beatrice looked up sharply.
"You mean to do that? You must know it will cause trouble," she said with a frown.
"I'm sorry to displease you; but this is something that must be done."
"Why must it? Do you wish Lance to offend his father?"
"No; but Colonel Mowbray has no cause for complaint. He gave the land to Lance on the understanding that he worked it; there's no reason why he should object to his using the best implements. Then, Lance is your brother and I don't want to see him ruined."
Beatrice blushed under his frank gaze; and because she was annoyed at doing so, she flung out a taunt:
"Do you think the only way of escaping ruin is to copy you?"
Harding laughed. He loved her in that mood. She looked so alluring with a little frown between her brows and just the suspicion of a pout on her lips.
"You see," he explained, in a voice that he might have used to an offended child, "your Allenwood friends will have to make a change soon, or they'll suffer. And their attitude is not logical. Your father doesn't ask them to cultivate with the spade; they've dropped the ox-teams and bought Clydesdales; they've given up the single furrow and use the gang-plow. Why not go on to steam? After all, you're not standing still: you're moving forward a little behind the times. Why not keep abreast of them, or push on ahead?"