“But, my dear Wilfrid,” cries Lady Southwold, with equal impatience, “yours is rank Communism.”
“You can call it what you please. It is the only condition of things which would accompany pure civilisation. When, however, I speak of half a crown a day,” he pursues, “I use a figure of speech! Of course, in a purely free world there would be no coined or printed money, there would be only barter.”
“Barter!” echoes Marlow. “I should carry two of my Berkshire pigs, one under each arm, and exchange them with you for a thousand copies of your Age to Come.”
“I think barter would be inconvenient, Mr. Bertram,” says Cicely Seymour, doubtfully. “And what should I barter? I can’t make anything. I should have to cut off my hair and wait a year till it grew again.”
Every one laughs, and Bertram even relaxes his gravity.
“I fear, Miss Seymour, that Solon’s self would give you all you wished for a single smile!”
At that moment a small boy comes into the room, out of breath, grinning, with several oblong pieces of printed paper in his hand; he pushes his way unconcerned between the ladies and gentlemen, and thrusts the papers at Bertram.
“Here, mister, you must tone these here down; manager says as Fanshawe says as the British Public wouldn’t never stand them pars. he’s marked at no time; and manager says as I was to tell you Public is extra nervous now cos o’ that bomb at Tooting.”
Bertram takes the sheets in ill humour, and tears them across.
“Mr. Fanshawe is well aware that I never correct and I never suppress. I forbid the production of the article in a mutilated state.” He hands the pieces to the boy. “Bid Mr. Fanshawe return me my original copy.”