"I can't deny that your machines have their advantages," the Colonel said. "They'd be useful if you could keep them in their place as servants; the danger is that they'll become your masters. When you have bought them you must make them pay, and that puts you under the yoke of an iron thing that demands to be handled with the sternest economy. The balance sheet's the only standard it leaves you—and you have to make some sacrifices if you mean to come out on the credit side. Your finer feelings and self-respect often have to go."
"I'm not sure they need go; but, in a way, you're right. You must strike a balance, or the machines that cost so much will break you. For all that, it's useful as a test; the result of bad work shows when you come to the reckoning. I can't see that to avoid waste must be demoralizing."
"It isn't. The harm begins when you set too high a value on economical efficiency."
Harding did not answer, and there was silence for a time. Mrs. Mowbray had a headache from the heat, and Beatrice felt limp. She noticed the slackness of Harding's pose and felt sorry for him. He differed from her father, and she could not think he was always right, but he was honest; indeed, it was his strong sincerity that had first attracted her. She liked his strength and boldness; the athletic symmetry of his form had its effect; but what struck her most was his freedom from what the Canadians contemptuously called meanness. Beatrice was fastidiously refined in some respects, and she thought of him as clean. Unconsciously she forgave him much for this, because he jarred upon her now and then. Her father's old-fashioned ideals were touched with a grace that her lover could not even admire, but, watching him as he sat in the fading light, she felt that he was trustworthy.
Mosquitos began to invade the veranda, and Mrs. Mowbray was driven into the house. The Colonel presently followed her, and Beatrice, leaving her chair, cuddled down beside Harding on the steps.
"Craig," she said, "you're quiet to-night."
"This dry weather makes one think; and then there's the difference between your father and myself. He wants to be just, but there's a natural antagonism between us that can't be got over."
"It isn't personal, dear."
"No," said Harding; "we're antagonistic types. The trouble is that you must often think as he does—and I wouldn't have you different."
"That's dear of you, Craig. But, even if we don't agree always, what does it matter? I like you because you're so candid and honest. You would never hide anything you thought or did from me."