Fry had dug up half-an-acre of that paddock; and already the mauve potato-flower was in bloom above its dark leaves. “Confound it,” thought Peter, “I’m not going to be done out of this paddock. I paid to have it dug up, didn’t I?” He looked at the two chicken-houses. They would have to be moved. It would take Fry half-a-day to move them. Half-a-day at thirty shillings a week. . . . And immediately the word “business” formed itself in Peter’s brain. He had never before considered the country in the light of business: the country had been for him a place where town-people made holiday; a rather jolly picturesque kind of place—scenery among which one rode, or killed pheasants, or drove golf-balls. Now he saw the country as the peasant sees it—but the peasant in Peter had been sharpened by a half-a-generation among townsfolk. “It isn’t just _a_ business,” he thought. “It’s _the_ business. The greatest business in the world. And I’ve been living right in the middle of it for six months without grasping that simple fact.” Then the Jew in Peter said, quite distinctly, “My boy, there’s money in this.” Prudence the pig grunted a hint of feeding-time. But to Peter she was Prudence the pig no longer: she was Prudence the breeding sow, and the sooner she went to the boar the better. Pigs! “Little pigs pays all right,” he seemed to hear old man Tebbits speaking. Then imagination outran Tebbits; if little pigs paid to sell, big hogs paid to rear. “Question of feeding cost,” remarked the ghost of Peter the First. . . . The man in the white flannel trousers, with the belted shooting-coat and the Old Etonian tie, looked at the woods beyond the paddock. Beeches! There were beeches in those woods; beech-mast, roots, all sorts of pig-fodder. He saw an endless procession of hogs, running through the paddock to feed in those woods. “Damn it,” said Peter, “I’ve got to have the paddock. . . .” Three hens fluttered up onto the wire-netting round the potato-patch; swayed there a moment; dropped over among the potato-plants. Patricia couldn’t make hens pay. Of course she couldn’t. They were bad hens. And chicken food was too dear. But if one grew one’s own corn. . . . “Self-supporting,” thought Peter suddenly. “Cut the middle-man’s profit.” A cow lowed from across the road. Thought process went on. Peasant, soldier, Jew and business-man met round the board-room table of Peter’s brain. First the land; then the men to work the land. “Don’t pay rent. Buy outright,” said Business. “Keep ’em in order,” rasped the soldier. “Crops and stock,” said the peasant, “crops and stock, stock and crops.” “And your markets,” whispered the Jew, “never forget your markets. Work to your markets—supply and demand, demand and supply.” . . . All of which counsels the old Etonian crystallized into the words, “Why not become a gentleman-farmer?”