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 said it! I'd come in to tell you. It's going to be 'we.'" He advanced the paper he had been holding in his hand, his thumb indicating the top left-hand corner. "What do you think of me above the line, my boy?" The paper was a sheet of the firm's notepaper. In the upper left-hand corner was printed in small type, "The Rev. Sebastian Fortune." Beneath the name was a short line and beneath the line, "Mr. Shearman Twyning. Mr. Mark Sabre": The Rev. Sebastian Fortune. ---------- Mr. Shearman Twyning. Mr. Mark Sabre. Sabre said slowly, "What do you mean--you 'above the line'?" Twyning indicated the short line with a forefinger. "That line, my boy. Jonah's going to take me into partnership. Just told me." He had released the paper into Sabre's hand. Sabre handed it back with a single word, "Good." Twyning's face darkened again and darkened worse. He crumpled the paper violently in his hand and spoke also but a single word, "Thanks!" He turned sharply on his heel and went to the door. "I say, Twyning!" Sabre jumped to his feet and went to Twyning with outstretched hand. "I didn't mean to take it like that. Don't think I'm not--I congratulate you. Jolly good. Splendid. I tell you what--I don't mind telling you--it was a bit of a smack in the eye for me for a moment. You know, I've rather sweated over this business,"--his glance indicated the stacked bookshelves, the firm's publications, _his_ publications.... "See what I mean?" A certain movement in his throat and about his mouth indicated, more than his words, what he meant. A slight. Twyning took the hand and gripped it with a firmness characteristic of his handshake.