“That,” said he passionately, “is what I should like to do to the butler, were I the Honourable Giles. And that,” he kicked another stick, “is how I would treat that brute who allowed me to wait for my waistcoat. And so,” he trod on and snapped a twig that lay athwart his path, “so would I crush the footman who dared to nudge me with the curried prawns! And,” he caught a hazel bough that hung from the hedge, and broke it off, and ripped the leaves away, and then with his teeth pulled the rind away, “and this is what I would do to that man who dared to talk of half-shaved French poodles. Oh! if I could be but a despot—a dictator for an hour—for an hour only—to ram the curried prawns down the throat of that insolent ruffian who nudged me, and to flay alive that creature who spoke of poodles! Then I would cheerfully surrender my power into the hands of the people and be the democratic leader once more.” He entered the park grounds by a side-gate and was soon on the terrace. There he saw Arminell returning to the house from her stroll in the avenue. “Mr. Saltren,” she said, “have you also been enjoying the beauty of the night?” “I have been trying to cool the fever within,” he replied. “I hope,” she said, misunderstanding him, “that you have not caught the influenza, or whatever it is from Giles.” “I have taken nothing from Giles. The fever I speak of is not physical.” “Oh! you are still thinking of what we discussed over the Noah’s Ark.” “Yes—how can I help it? I who am broken and trodden on at every moment.” “I am sorry to hear you say this, Mr. Saltren. I also have been talking the matter over with papa, and after he went in, I have been walking up and down under the trees meditating on it—but I get no farther, for all my thinking.” “Miss Inglett,” said Jingles, “the time of barley-mows is at an end. Hitherto we have had the oats, and the wheat, and the rye, and the clover, and the meadow-grass ricked, stacked separately. All that is of the past. The age of the stack-yard is over with its several distinct classified ricks—this is wheat, that is rye; this is clover, that damaged hay. We are now entering an age of Silo, and inevitably as feudalism is done away with, so will the last relics of distinctions be swept aside also, and we shall all enter an universal and common silo.” “I do not think I quite understand you.” “Henceforth all mankind will make one, all contribute to the common good, all be pressed together and the individuality of one pass to become the property of all.” Arminell shook her head and laughed. “I confess that I find great sweetness in the old stack-yard, and a special fragrance attaches to each rick. Is all that to be a thing of the past, and the savour of the silo to be the social atmosphere of the future?” “You strain the illustration,” said Saltren testily. “You wish to substitute an aggregate of nastiness for diversified sweets.”