That, to turn from recrimination, was what they saw in Canada looking across—­the queerest thing of all was the recalcitrance of the farm labourer; they could only stare at that—­and it may be that the spectacle was depressing to hopeful initiative.  At all events, it was plain that the new policy was suffering from a certain flatness on the further side.  As a ballon d’essai it lacked buoyancy; and no doubt Mr Farquharson was right in declaring that above all things it lacked actuality, business—­the proposition, in good set terms, for men to turn over, to accept or reject.  Nothing could be done with it, Mr Farquharson averred, as a mere prospect; it was useful only to its enemies.  We of the young countries must be invited to deeds, not theories, of which we have a restless impatience; and this particular theory, though of golden promise, was beginning to recoil to some extent, upon the cause which had been confident enough to adopt it before it could be translated into action and its hard equivalent.  The Elgin Mercury probably overstated the matter when it said that the Grits were dead sick of the preference they would never get; but Horace Williams was quite within the mark when he advised Lorne to stick to old Reform principles—­clean administration, generous railway policy, sympathetic labour legislation, and freeze himself a little on imperial love and attachment.

“They’re not so sweet on it in Ottawa as they were, by a long chalk,” he said.  “Look at the Premier’s speech to the Chambers of Commerce in Montreal.  Pretty plain statement that, of a few things the British Government needn’t expect.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lorne.  “He was talking to manufacturers, you know, a pretty skittish lot anywhere.  It sounded independent, but if you look into it you won’t find it gave the cause away any.”

“The old man’s got to think of Quebec, where his fat little majority lives,” remarked Bingham, chairman of the most difficult subdivision in the town.  “The Premier of this country drives a team, you know.”

“Yes,” said Lorne, “but he drives it tandem, and Johnny Francois is the second horse.”

“Maybe so,” returned Mr Williams, “but the organ’s singing pretty small, too.  Look at this.”  He picked up the Dominion from the office table and read aloud:  “’If Great Britain wishes to do a deal with the colonies she will find them willing to meet her in a spirit of fairness and enthusiasm.  But it is for her to decide, and Canada would be the last to force her bread down the throat of the British labourer at a higher price than he can afford to pay for it.’  What’s that, my boy?  Is it high-mindedness?  No, sir, it’s lukewarmness.”

“The Dominion makes me sick,” said young Murchison.  “It’s so scared of the Tory source of the scheme in England that it’s handing the whole boom of the biggest chance this country ever had over to the Tories here.  If anything will help us to lose it that will.  No Conservative Government in Canada can put through a cent of preference on English goods when it comes to the touch, and they know it.  They’re full of loyalty just now—­baying the moon—­but if anybody opens a window they’ll turn tail fast enough.”