“Most certainly not.”
“All the same,” she continued, “that underlies your programme. I am well aware that we rule, to-day, on sufferance. As yet, the country people, particularly the people in such counties as this, are singularly free from disaffection. You and your friends are stirring them up.”
“To help themselves,” he interrupted; “to make them realise that they are practically parasites, living for you and on you.”
“I dare say. These good fellows,” she indicated the Nether-Applewhite XI, “don’t look like parasites.”
“This parish is exceptional. Even here—I hesitate to offend.”
“Pray go on!”
“Even here the condition is that of stagnant dependence. The labourers are at the mercy of farmer and landowner. Power is not abused on this state, but it might be. At Ocknell Manor the conditions are atrocious. Everything is left to an ignorant agent, who skins ’em alive.”
Margot shrugged her slender shoulders.
“I repeat, if you stir them up, if you transfer the power to them—we go. I leave it to you to say whether you are honestly convinced that the masses will succeed where the classes have failed.”
By this time they had strolled back to the marquee, and joined the others. Margot had no wish to prolong a futile discussion. As Moxon had said, his views were public property. She had listened to them, at first hand, from the more radical statesman who preached them in and out of season. Her particular object had been accomplished. Moxon, as she had guessed, was a man of parts. No girl would dismiss such a lover lightly.