“But what is it?� demanded Sir Horace.
“The time has come,� said the Prime Minister, “to Nationalize the Land.�
Sir Horace Hunter rose from his chair, opened his mouth, shut it, and sat down again, all with what he himself might have called a reflex action.
“But that is Socialism!� cried Lord Normantowers, his eyes standing out of his head.
“True Socialism, don’t you think?� mused the Prime Minister. “Better call it True Socialism; just the sort of thing to be remembered at elections. Theirs is Socialism, and ours is True Socialism.�
“Do you really mean, my lord,� cried Hunter in a heat of sincerity stronger than the snobbery of a lifetime, “that you are going to support the Bolshies?�
“No,� said Eden, with the smile of a sphinx. “I mean the Bolshies are going to support me. Idiots!�
After a silence, he added in a more wistful tone:
“Of course, as a matter of sentiment, it is a little sad. All our fine old English castles and manors, the homes of the gentry ... they will become public property, like post offices, I suppose. When I think of the happy hours I have myself passed at Normantowers—� He smiled across at the nobleman of that name and went on. “And Sir Horace has now, I believe, the joy of living in Warbridge Castle—fine old place. Dear me, yes, and I think Mr. Low has a castle, though the name escapes me.�
“Rosewood Castle,� said Mr. Low rather sulkily.