There stands out—because of the tranquil beauty of its setting perhaps—a talk we had in the veranda of the little pavilion near my worksheds behind Crest Hill in which my aeroplanes and navigable balloons were housed. It was one of many similar conversations, and I do not know why it in particular should survive its fellows. It happens so. He had come up to me after his coffee to consult me about a certain chalice which in a moment of splendour and under the importunity of a countess he had determined to give to a deserving church in the east-end. I, in a moment of even rasher generosity, had suggested Ewart as a possible artist. Ewart had produced at once an admirable sketch for the sacred vessel surrounded by a sort of wreath of Millies with open arms and wings and had drawn fifty pounds on the strength of it. After that came a series of vexatious delays. The chalice became less and less of a commercial man’s chalice, acquired more and more the elusive quality of the Holy Grail, and at last even the drawing receded. My uncle grew restive.... “You see, George, they’ll begin to want the blasted thing!” “What blasted thing?” “That chalice, damn it! They’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.