“But not as good as England?”
“Well, I suppose England’s my country,” said Henry.
“If I was there expect I’d feel the same about New Zealand.”
“I expect so. But you’re only once removed from England, and we’re not New Zealand at all. Strangers in a strange land and making pretty considerable fools of ourselves. There’s a financial crisis brewing, Roberta.”
“Again!” cried Roberta in alarm.
“Again, and it seems to be a snorter.”
Henry rolled over on his back and stared at the sky.
“We’re hopeless,” he said to Roberta. “We live by windfalls and they won’t go on for ever. What will happen to us, Roberta?”
“Charlot,” said Roberta, “thinks you might have a poultry farm.”
“She and Daddy both think so,” said Henry. “What will happen? We'll order masses of hens, — and I can’t tell you how much I dislike the sensation of feathers, — we’ll build expensive modern chicken-houses, we’ll buy poultrified garments for ourselves, and for six months we’ll all be eaten up with the zeal of the chicken-house and then we’ll employ someone to do the work and we won’t have paid for the outlay.”