"Just think, Margaret," he said, "of Spiders. Spiders is our gardener, Light-Johnson, a stout cheery fellow. He will probably be local executioner."
Light-Johnson turned and looked at his host with reproachful eyes.
"Many a true word before now has been spoken in jest, Duncombe," he said. "You will at any rate not deny that this coming winter is going to be an appalling one—what with strikes, unemployment and the price of food for ever going up—all this with the most incompetent Government that any country has ever had in the world's history. I don't think that even you, Duncombe, can call the outlook very cheerful."
"Every Government is the worst that any country's ever had," said Duncombe. "However, I daresay you're right, Light-Johnson. Perhaps this is the end of the world. Who knows? And what does it matter if it is?"
"Really, Charles!" Lady Bell-Hall was eating her cutlet with great rapidity, as though she expected a naked Chinaman to jump in through the window at any moment and snatch it from her. "But seriously, Mr. Light-Johnson, do you see no hope anywhere?"
"Frankly none at all. I don't think any one could call me a pessimist. I simply look at things as they are—the true duty of every man."
"And what do you think one ought to do?"
"For myself," said Light-Johnson, helping himself to another cutlet, "I shall spend the coming winter on the Riviera—Mentone, I think. The Income Tax is so scandalous that I shall probably live in the south of France during the next year or two."
"And so shoulder your responsibilities like a true British citizen," said Duncombe. "I'm sure you're right. You're lucky to be able to get away so easily."
Light-Johnson's sallow cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "Of course, if I felt that I could do any good I would remain," he said. "I'm not the sort of man to desert a sinking ship, I hope. Sinking it is, I fear. The great days of England are over. We must not be sentimentalists nor stick our heads, ostrich-wise, in the sand. We must face facts."