“It can,” said Sir Timothy, “and does. It takes jolly good care not to rise in Dublin at the same time that it does in Greenwich, and what you’re trying to do is to bluff it into saying it does. When you come to think of it, the sun doesn’t rise here the same time it does in Dublin. We’re a hundred and twenty miles west of Dublin, so the real time here——”
“We can’t have a different time in every parish,” said Mr. Courtney. “In the interests of international civilization——”
“I don’t care a row of pins about international civilization. We’re something like twenty minutes wrong already here. When you’ve made your silly change to summer time, and wiped out that twenty-five minutes Irish time, we shall be an hour and three quarters wrong.”
“At all events,” said Mr. Courtney, “you’ll have to do it.”
“I won’t.”
“And when you’ve got accustomed to it, you’ll see the advantages of the change.”
Sir Timothy was profoundly irritated.
“You may do as you like,” he said, “I mean to stick to the proper time. The proper time, mind you, strictly according to the sun, as it rises in this neighbourhood. I haven’t worked it out exactly yet, but I should say, roughly, that there’ll be two hours’ difference between your watch and mine.”
Mr. Courtney gasped.
“Do you mean to say that you’re actually going to add on two hours?