"But papa, that is very bad."
"What?"
"That poor people should feel so. I am sure rich people are their best friends."
Her father stroked her head fondly, and looked amused.
"They don't believe that, Daisy."
"But why don't they believe it, papa?" said Daisy, growing more and more surprised.
"I suppose," said Mr. Randolph, rising, "they would be better satisfied if I gave them my horses and went afoot." A speech which Daisy pondered and pondered and could make nothing of.
They walked on, Mr. Randolph making observations and giving orders now and then to workmen. Here a man was mowing under the shrubbery; there the gardener was setting out pots of greenhouse flowers; in another place there were holes digging for trees to be planted. Daisy went musing on while her father gave his orders, and when they were again safe out of hearing she spoke. "Papa, do you suppose Michael and Andrew and John, and all your own people, feel so about you?"
"I think it is likely, Daisy. I can't hope to escape better than my neighbours."
"But, papa, they don't look so, nor act so?"