“You heard that man’s name. Did you notice a resemblance to anybody we have met?” she inquired.
“Yes,” said Ida. “Of course, it may be accidental.”
Her companion laughed.
“I don’t think it is. In view of what I once told you on the subject, it’s a matter I mean to investigate.”
She moved away; but it was Ida who first was afforded an opportunity of deciding the question, for a few minutes later Ainslie strolled toward her. When he sat down beside her, she indicated the waste, of climbing pasture, which ran up, interspersed with gorse bushes and clumps of heather, to the dusky moor.
“Not a sign of cultivation,” she said. “I suppose that grass is never broken up? How much foundation is there for Mr. Weston’s views?”
Ainslie laughed.
“I’m afraid I’m hardly competent to decide, but there are people who agree with him. Still, I think it’s reasonably certain that a good deal of the higher land that now carries a few head of sheep would grow oats and other things. It’s largely a question of economics. Somebody would have to spend a good deal of money and labor on it first, and the result, which wouldn’t be very apparent for two or three years, would be a little uncertain then. It depends on how much the man who undertook it wanted back to make the thing worth while.”
“They are content with food, and sometimes very indifferent shelter, in western Canada.”
“There,” said Ainslie, “you have the thing in a nutshell. You have, no doubt, formed some idea of Weston’s wants, which are rather numerous. In fact, some of us seem to consider it the correct thing to cultivate them. The more wants you have the greater man you are.”