And when it comes, you and I will be sick if we're not there--yes, even you with your millions, Byng." With moist eyes Byng grasped the hand of the rough-hewn comrade of the veld, and shook it warmly.
"England has got on your nerves, Barry," he said, gently.

"But we're all right in London.

The key-board of the big instrument is here." "But the organ is out there, Byng, and it's the organ that makes the music, not the keys.

We're all going to pieces here, every one of us.

I see it.