He got out a note-book and a pencil and prepared to write.
“Now,” he said, “go on.”
Bland’s expectant attitude, and the fact that he was evidently going to take down what I said in shorthand, embarrassed me. When I write essays I like to work deliberately and to correct carefully. I aim at a polished elegance of style. I do not care for the kind of offhand composition Bland asked for.
“‘Interview with a Revolutionary Peer,’” said Bland, “‘Lord Kilmore on the Ulster Situation.’ You were just going to say—”
“Oh, nothing much. Only that the feelings of that New Zealander—”
“Meditating on the ruins of a shattered civilization,” said Bland. “I can put in that part myself.”
“—Are nothing to yours—” I said.
“Yours,” said Bland.
“Well, mine, if this must be an interview; but I’d rather you had the whole credit.—Are nothing to mine when I survey the vacant pedestal of that statue. You catch the idea now?”
“No,” said Bland. “I don’t. Is there one?”