he brickfield and ate at it until
it was dawn, none even then daring to disturb them....

II.

Redwood went round, to Bensington about eleven the next morning with the
"second editions" of three evening papers in his hand.

Bensington looked up from a despondent meditation over the forgotten
pages of the most distracting novel the Brompton Road librarian had been
able to find him. "Anything fresh?" he asked.

"Two men stung near Chartham."

"They ought to let us smoke out that nest. They really did. It's their
own fault."

"It's their own fault, certainly," said Redwood.

"Have you heard anything--about buying the farm?"

"The House Agent," said Redwood, "is a thing with a big mouth and made
of dense wood. It pretends someone else is after the house--it always
does, you know--and won't understand there's a hurry. 'This is a matter
of life and death,' I said, 'don't you understand?' It drooped its eyes
half shut and said, 'Then why don't you go the other two hundred
pounds?' I'd rather live in a world of solid wasps than give in to the
stonewalling stupidity of that offensive creature. I--"

He paused, feeling that a sentence like that might very easily be
spoiled by its context.

"It's too much to hope," said Bensington, "that one of the wasps--"

"The wasp has no more idea of public utility than a--than a House
Agent," said Redwood.

He talked for a little while about house agents and solicitors and
people of that sort, in the unjust, unreasonable way that so many people
do somehow get to talk of these business calculi ("Of all the cranky
things in this cranky world, it is the most cranky to my mind of all,
that while we expect honour, courage, efficiency, from a doctor or a
soldier as a matter of course, a solicitor or a house agent is not only
permitted but expected to display nothing but a sort of greedy, greasy,
obstructive, over-reaching imbecility--" etc.)--and then, greatly
relieved, he went to the window and stared out at the Sloane Street
traffic.

Bensington had put the most exciting novel conceivable on the little
table that carried his electric standard. He joined the fingers of his
opposed hands very carefully and regarded them. "Redwood," he said. "Do
they say much about _Us_?"

"Not so much as I should expect."

"They don't denounce us at all?"

"Not a bit. But, on the other hand, they don't back up what I point out
must be done. I've written to the _Times_, you know, explaining th