Harold March, the rising reviewer and social critic, was walking vigorously across a greattableland of moors and commons, the horizon of which was fringed with the far-off woodsof the famous estate of Torwood Park. He was a good-looking young man in tweeds, withvery pale curly hair and pale clear eyes. Walking in wind and sun in the very landscape ofliberty, he was still young enough to remember his politics and not merely try to forgetthem. For his errand at Torwood Park was a political one; it was the place of appointmentnamed by no less a person than the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Howard Horne, thenintroducing his so-called Socialist budget, and prepared to expound it in an interview withso promising a penman. Harold March was the sort of man who knows everything aboutpolitics, and nothing about politicians. He also knew a great deal about art, letters, philosophy, and general culture; about almost everything, indeed, except the world he wasliving in
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