“Whose fault is it?” he repeated slowly. “That’s a bit of a stumper, boy. One can’t answer a big question like that—off hand.”
“Is it their fault? A lot of ’em herd together like animals.”
“Not on my property, Lionel.”
“I know. You’ve been awfully decent about that, but elsewhere. Within a radius of ten miles, we both know of conditions that beat the London slums. Is that their fault?”
“No.”
“Things are changing slowly for the better, but why can’t they be speeded up? If our labourers could be made more intelligent, we should profit as much as they. You’ve looked after their bodies jolly well. You believe in eugenics.”
“I do, b’ Jove! I don’t believe in clap-trap education, never did. Our old gaffers, who signed their names with their thumbs did a better day’s work than their half-educated sons.”
Lionel laughed.
“Father, I can roll you in the dust. I hate to do it.”
“Do it, if you can, you young rascal. I defy you!”