"Yes. I've got my knife into you," Christopher answered. "Into the whole bloody lot of you, and Ruggles' and ffolliott's and our father!"
Mark said: "Ah!"
"You don't suppose I wouldn't have?" Christopher asked.
"Oh, I don't suppose you wouldn't have," Mark answered. "I thought you were a soft sort of bloke. I see you aren't."
"I'm as North Riding as yourself!" Christopher answered.
They were in the tide of Fleet Street, pushed apart by foot passengers and separated by traffic. With some of the imperiousness of the officer of those days Christopher barged across through motor-buses and paper lorries. With the imperiousness of the head of a department Mark said:
"Here, policeman, stop these damn things and let me get over." But Christopher was over much the sooner and waited for his brother in the gateway of the Middle Temple. His mind was completely swallowed up in the endeavour to imagine the embraces of Valentine Wannop. He said to himself that he had burnt his boats.
Mark, coming alongside him, said:
"You'd better know what our father wanted."
Christopher said: