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spoiled by its context.
"It's too much to hope," said Bensington, "that one of the wasps--"
"
The wasp has no more idea of public utility than a--than a House
Agent," said Redwood.
He talked for a little while about house agents and solicitors and
people of that sort, in the unjust, unreasonable way that so many people
do somehow get to talk of these business calculi ("Of all the cranky
things in this cranky world, it is the most cranky to my mind of all,
that while we expect honour, courage, efficiency, from a doctor or a
soldier as a matter of course, a solicitor or a house agent is not only
permitted but expected to display nothing but a sort of greedy, greasy,
obstructive, over-reaching imbecility--" etc.)--and then, greatly
relieved, he went to the window and stared out at the Sloane Street
traffic.
Bensington had put the most exciting novel conceivable on the little
table that carried his electric standard. He joined the fingers of his
opposed hands very carefully and regarded them. "Redwood," he said. "Do
they say much about Us?"
"
Not so much as I should expect."
They don't denounce us at all?"
"
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