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Updated: June 15, 2025
Then he took out the manuscript of "England" and turned over the pages. He wondered what Nona would think of it. He would like to tell her about it. Twyning came in. Twyning rarely entered Sabre's room. Sabre did not enter Twyning's twice in a year. Their work ran on separate lines and there was something, unexpressed, the reverse of much sympathy between them. Twyning was an older man than Sabre.
Twyning supervised the factory and workshops wherein the ecclesiastical and scholastic furniture was produced, and Fortune supervised his two principals and every least employee and smallest detail of all the business. Particularly orders. He very strongly objected to clients dealing directly with either Sabre or Twyning.
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.
Fortune gave Sabre the feeling that for some reason they were not entirely at ease. His immediate thought had been that it was an odd thing to have taken on young Twyning without mentioning it even casually to him. It was significant of his estrangement in the office; but their self-conscious manner was even more significant: it suggested that he had been kept out of the plan deliberately.
"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.
Yes, he had been recommended for a commission and was coming home that month to a Cadet battalion at Bournemouth. When Sabre made his congratulations Twyning accompanied him downstairs to the street and warmly shook his hand. "Thanks, old man; thanks most awfully. Yes, he's everything to me, my Harold.
He "worked back" through the morning on the Fargus principle. Not because of his thoughts after the Twyning business; not because of the disturbance of the Twyning business. No. He had returned because he had seen Nona. Thoughts feelings had been stirred within him by meeting her. And it had suddenly been rather hateful to have those thoughts and to feel that that Mabel had no place in them.
Fortune assembled the hands and from across the whale-like front indicated the path of duty and announced that the places of all those who followed it would be kept open for them. "Hear, hear!" said Twyning. "Hear, hear!" and as the men were filing out he took Sabre affectionately by the arm and explained to him that young Harold was dying to go.
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?"
Beastly, having to defend Mabel's unfairness like this. "Oh, I fancy my wife had the idea of getting some relation to live with her, that's all." Twyning was looking keenly at him. "Oh, I see. But a bit sudden, wasn't it? I mean to say, I thought you were on such friendly terms with the girl. Why, only a couple of days before she left I saw you with her having tea in the Cloister tea rooms.
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