“Because—I don't know. It is out of my line”.
“Your line! Yet you are a human being—”
“Well, partly, yes: say—a novelist”.
“Do not jest! It is incredible to me that you have written book after book, and knew of this divine thing, and did not cram your books with it!”
Loveday flushed. “You misunderstand my profession; and as to this theory of land-tenure, let me tell you: it will never be realized—not in England. Anyway, it would mean civil war....”
Again those words! “Civil war....”
And as, for the second time, he heard them, Hogarth dashed the picture which he held to the ground, shattering glass and frame: which meant that, then and there, he washed his hands of the world and its wagging; meant also his return to Colmoor.
He dashed from the room without a word; down the stairs; out into the street.
As he ran along the King's Road, he asked a policeman the way to the nearest police-station, then ran on through a number of smaller streets, seeking it, till, at a corner, he stopped, once more uncertain, the night dim and drizzling.
He was about to set off again, when, behind him, he heard: “Excuse me, mister—could you give a poor man a penny to get a night's lodging?”