pocket ground rent.
Now I'm being pitched into the street to let Lord Tybar have a house
that's no more his than the man in the moon's. D'you call that right?"

"No, I don't," said Sabre, but with a tinge of impatience. "I call it
rotten."

Twyning seemed surprised. "Do you, though? Well, how about that book? I
mean to say--"

"I shall say so in the book. Or as good as say so."

Twyning pondered. "Shall you, by Jove? Well, but I say, that's
liberalism, radicalism, you know. That's not the sort of pap for kids."

"Well, the book isn't going to be pap for kids."

Twyning snorted a note of laughter through his nose. "Sorry, old man.
Don't get shirty. But I say though, seriously, we can't put out that
sort of stuff, you know. Radicalism. Not with our connection. I mean to
say--"

Sabre gathered up the papers and dropped them into a drawer. "Look here,
Twyning, suppose you wait till the book's written before you criticise
it. How about that for an idea?"

"All right, all right, old man. I'm not criticising. What's it going to
be called?"

"England."

Silence.

Sabre, appreciating, with the author's intense suspicion for his child,
something in the silence, looked up at Twyning. "Anything wrong about
that? 'England.' You read the first sentence?"

Twyning said slowly, "Yes, I know I did. I thought of it then."

"Thought of what?"

"Well--'England'--'this England.' I mean to say--What about Scotland?"

"Well, what about Scotland?"

Twyning seemed really concerned. The puckers on his face had visibly
deepened. He used a stubborn tone. "Well, you know what people are. You
know how damned touchy those Scotchmen are. I mean to say, if we put
out a book like that, the Scotch--"

Sabre smote the desk. This kind of thing from Twyning made him furious,
and he particularly was not in the mood for it this morning. He struck
his hand down on the desk: "Well, damn the Scotch. What's it got to do
with the Scotch? This book isn't about Scotland. It's about England.
England. I'll tell you another thing. You say if 'we' put out a book
like that. It isn't 'we.' Excuse me saying so, but it certainly isn't
you. It's I." He stopped, and then laughed. "Sorry, Twyning."

III

Twyning's face had gone very dark. His jaw had set. "Oh, all right." He
turned away, but immediately returned again, his face relaxed. "That's
all right. Only my chipping, you know. I say though," and he laughed
nervously. "That 'not we.' You've sai