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‘Rhoda,’ said he, ‘did you ever hear about a character called James Pigg–and Batsey?’

‘Why, o’ course,’ said she. ‘The Colonel used to come into the kitchen in ‘is dressin’-gown an’ read us all those Jorrockses.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Midmore, and went to bed with a book called Handley Cross under his arm, and a lonelier Columbus into a stranger world the wet-ringed moon never looked upon.

* * * * *

Here we omit much. But Midmore never denied that for the epicure in sensation the urgent needs of an ancient house, as interpreted by Rhoda pointing to daylight through attic-tiles held in place by moss, gives an edge to the pleasure of Social Research elsewhere. Equally he found that the reaction following prolonged research loses much of its grey terror if one knows one can at will bathe the soul in the society of plumbers (all the water-pipes had chronic appendicitis), village idiots (Jimmy had taken Midmore under his weak wing and camped daily at the drive-gates), and a giant with red eyelids whose every action is an unpredictable outrage.

Towards spring Midmore filled his house with a few friends of the Immoderate Left. It happened to be the day when, all things and Rhoda working together, a cartload of bricks, another of sand, and some bags of lime had been despatched to build Sidney his almost daily-demanded pig-pound. Midmore took his friends across the flat fields with some idea of showing them Sidney as a type of ‘the peasantry.’ They hit the minute when Sidney, hoarse with rage, was ordering bricklayer, mate, carts and all off his premises. The visitors disposed themselves to listen.

‘You never give me no notice about changin’ the pig,’ Sidney shouted. The pig–at least eighteen inches long–reared on end in the old sty and smiled at the company.

‘But, my good man–‘ Midmore opened.

‘I ain’t! For aught you know I be a dam’ sight worse than you be. You can’t come and be’ave arbit’ry with me. You are be’avin’ arbit’ry! All you men go clean away an’ don’t set foot on my land till I bid ye.’

‘But you asked’–Midmore felt his voice jump up–‘to have the pig-pound built.’

”Spose I did. That’s no reason you shouldn’t send me notice to change the pig. ‘Comin’ down on me like this ‘thout warnin’! That pig’s got to be got into the cowshed an’ all.’

‘Then open the door and let him run in,’ said Midmore.

‘Don’t you be’ave arbit’ry with me! Take all your dam’ men ‘ome off my land. I won’t be treated arbit’ry.’

The carts moved off without a word, and Sidney went into the house and slammed the door.

‘Now, I hold that is enormously significant,’ said a visitor. ‘Here you have the logical outcome of centuries of feudal oppression–the frenzy of fear.’ The company looked at Midmore with grave pain.

‘But he did worry my life out about his pig-sty,’ was all Midmore found to say.

Others took up the parable and proved to him if he only held true to the gospels of the Immoderate Left the earth would soon be covered with ‘jolly little’ pig-sties, built in the intervals of morris-dancing by ‘the peasant’ himself.

Midmore felt grateful when the door opened again and Mr. Sidney invited them all to retire to the road which, he pointed out, was public. As they turned the corner of the house, a smooth-faced woman in a widow’s cap curtsied to each of them through the window.

Instantly they drew pictures of that woman’s lot, deprived of all vehicle for self-expression–‘the set grey life and apathetic end,’ one quoted–and they discussed the tremendous significance of village theatricals. Even a month ago Midmore would have told them all that he knew and Rhoda had dropped about Sidney’s forms of self-expression. Now, for some strange reason, he was content to let the talk run on from village to metropolitan and world drama.

Rhoda advised him after the visitors left that ‘if he wanted to do that again’ he had better go up to town.