"Nothing particular, if you're busy," Twyning said. "I just looked in." He advanced the paper in his hand and looked at it as if about to add something else. But he said nothing and stood by Sabre's chair, also looking at the manuscript. "That that book?" "M'm." Sabre was trying to retain his thoughts. He felt them slipping away before Twyning's presence. He could hear Twyning breathing through his nose and felt incensed that Twyning should come and breathe through his nose by his chair when he wanted to write. But Twyning continued to stand by the chair and to breathe through his nose. He was reading over Sabre's shoulder. The few pages of "England" already written lay in front of Sabre's pad, the first page uppermost. Twyning read and interjected a snort into his nasal rhythm. "Well, that book's not written for me, anyway," he remarked. Sabre agreed shortly. "It isn't. But why not?" Twyning read aloud the first words. "'This England you live in is yours.' Well, I take my oath it isn't mine. Not a blooming inch of it. D'you know what's happening to me? I'm being turned out of my house. The lease is out and the whole damned house and everything I've put on to it goes to one of these lordlings--this Lord Tybar--just because one of his ancestors, who'd never even dreamt of the house, pinched the land it stands on from the public common and started to 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?"