While England Sleeps Read Online Free Page B

Christmas.”
    “Ah, the Brontës,” Rupert said. “So quintessentially English.”
    “Rupert,” Lady Abernathy said, “I have brought a letter I wrote. I wondered if you might read it and give me your opinion before I post it.”
    “Of course,” Rupert said. “And to whom is the letter to be sent?”
    “To Mr. Hitler.”
    Rupert went white. “Mr. Hitler?”
    “Indeed. I felt he might appreciate knowing that in spite of what the press may claim, there are many of us here in England who recognize his capacities and understand that he alone can save his country.”
    “Of course I’ll be happy to read it for you, Lady Abernathy,” Rupert stammered. “Do you wish me to make substantive criticism or simply check the grammar?”
    “I am more concerned that the style be . . . flowing, shall we say? And you were always such a talented writer, Rupert. He should write novels,” she added to me.
    “How impressive it is, Lady Abernathy,” Rupert said, “that you consider it worth your valuable time to engage with the politics of the day.”
    “Thank you. However, in doing so I am merely carrying on in the tradition of the late Lord Abernathy. He was, as you know, an inveterate letter writer, and never one to shrink from an opinion because it was unpopular.”
    An awful silence ensued. The maid brought in the soup.
    “I suppose the war in Spain can only become worse,” I said.
    “I was just recalling, Lady Abernathy,” Rupert said, “the great pleasure I took at Lady Manley’s tea last week upon hearing your charming recollections of Deauville.”
    “Rupert, dear, your friend has no interest in tedious anecdotes of my youth.” She turned to me. “I have been keeping abreast of the situation in Spain and can only say my hopes are with the rebels. Why, just the other night at dinner I was discussing the matter with Herr—oh, I am so bad with names—the German ambassador, and we quite agreed, the rebels are the only hope for Spain.”
    “I’m afraid I’m of the opposite opinion,” I said. “The Republican government is an elected body.”
    “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the German ambassador,” Rupert interjected, “although Mummy dined with his wife when she was in Dresden last year. She brought back the loveliest china—”
    “Mr. Botsford, you are young,” Lady Abernathy said, “and, if I might be so bold, susceptible to the worst sort of influences.”
    “I appreciate your frankness, Lady Abernathy,” I said. “If I may be so frank myself—”
    “By all means.”
    “The German ambassador is Hitler’s hack. I have lived in Germany, I have seen the blood that flows when the National Socialists—”
    “I have always felt politics to be beneath artists,” Rupert thrust in. “Artists must look beyond petty mortal conflict. It is what I so admire about Brian’s work—at least those snippets I was privileged to read during our years at Cambridge. There is a serenity of vision that seems to rise above the din of the contemporary.”
    “The German ambassador,” Lady Abernathy said, “is a gentleman in every way. Ah, I fear his government has been quite misrepresented in the popular press, which is not surprising, given the fact that the popular press is now almost entirely under Jewish control. It’s no wonder that young people see such a distorted picture. The Jews as a race, if I might quote Lord Abernathy—”
    My chair made screeching noises as I pushed it out from the table.
    “Excuse me, but under the circumstances, I must retire.”
    “Pardon me, Brian?”
    “Are you not feeling well?” Lady Abernathy asked.
    “I can only say that under the circumstances, I must retire.”
    “Brian—”
    I turned and walked up the stairs and into my bedroom, where I immediately started packing. Even though I felt calm, my pulse was racing. What would Nigel have counseled me to do? Storm away? Upend the table? “Lady Abernathy, if your hatred of foreigners is as boundless as