ey're beginning to ask questions. It isn't
Business, George."

"It's art," I protested, "and religion."

"That's all very well. But it's not a good ad for us, George, to make a
promise and not deliver the goods.... I'll have to write off your
friend Ewart as a bad debt, that's what it comes to, and go to a decent
firm."...

We sat outside on deck chairs in the veranda of the pavilion, smoked,
drank whisky, and, the chalice disposed of, meditated. His temporary
annoyance passed. It was an altogether splendid summer night, following
a blazing, indolent day. Full moonlight brought out dimly the lines
of the receding hills, one wave beyond another; far beyond were the
pin-point lights of Leatherhead, and in the foreground the little stage
from which I used to start upon my gliders gleamed like wet steel. The
season must have been high June, for down in the woods that hid the
lights of the Lady Grove windows, I remember the nightingales thrilled
and gurgled....

"We got here, George," said my uncle, ending a long pause. "Didn't I
say?"

"Say!--when?" I asked.

"In that hole in the To'nem Court Road, eh? It's been a Straight Square
Fight, and here we are!"

I nodded.

"'Member me telling you--Tono-Bungay?.... Well.... I'd just that
afternoon thought of it!"

"I've fancied at times;" I admitted.

"It's a great world, George, nowadays, with a fair chance for every
one who lays hold of things. The career ouvert to the Talons--eh?
Tono-Bungay. Think of it! It's a great world and a growing world, and
I'm glad we're in it--and getting a pull. We're getting big people,
George. Things come to us. Eh? This Palestine thing."...

He meditated for a time and Zzzzed softly. Then he became still.

His theme was taken up by a cricket in the grass until he himself was
ready to resume it. The cricket too seemed to fancy that in some scheme
of its own it had got there. "Chirrrrrrup" it said; "chirrrrrrup."

"Lord, what a place that was at Wimblehurst!" he broke out. "If ever
I get a day off we'll motor there, George, and run over that dog that
sleeps in the High Street. Always was a dog asleep there--always.
Always... I'd like to see the old shop again. I daresay old Ruck still
stands between the sheep at his door, grinning with all his teeth, and
Marbel, silly beggar! comes out with his white apron on and a pencil
stuck behind his ear, trying to look awake... Wonder if they know it's
me? I'd like 'em somehow to know it's me.