“No,” he said, “I’m not contemplating suicide. Don’t think that. I’m merely pondering on the illusion that England is the abode of freedom.”
“But isn’t it?” I asked.
He laughed bitterly.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
He jerked his thumb towards the stone globe which is to Swanage what Thorwaldsen’s Lion is to Lucerne, or the Sphinx to the desert.
“Well?” I said.
“Have you seen the tablets?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“They’ve put up two tablets,” he explained, “with a request that any one wishing to cut or write his name should do it there rather than on the globe.”
“Very sensible,” I said.