The Human Factor by Graham Greene Page A

country. Pall Mall, a steely grey, like a Victorian engraving, was framed by the long windows. The Indian summer was nearly over, the clocks had all been altered, and you could feel the approach of winter concealed in the smallest wind. They began with smoked trout, which led Sir John Hargreaves to tell Doctor Percival that he was now seriously thinking of trying to stock the stream which divided his park from the agricultural land. ‘I’ll need your advice, Emmanuel,’ he said. They were on Christian-name terms when they were safely alone.
    For a long while they talked of fishing for trout, or rather Doctor Percival talked – it was a subject which always appeared a limited one to Hargreaves, but he knew Doctor Percival would be quite capable of enlarging on it until dinner. However, he was shifted from trout to another favourite topic by a chance diversion to the subject of his club. ‘If I had a conscience,’ Doctor Percival said, ‘I would not remain a member here. I’m a member because the food – and the smoked trout too if you will forgive me, John – is the best in London.’
    â€˜I like the food at the Travellers just as much,’ Hargreaves said.
    â€˜Ah, but you are forgetting our steak-and-kidney pudding. I know you won’t like me saying so, but I prefer it to your wife’s pie. Pastry holds the gravy at a distance. Pudding absorbs the gravy. Pudding, you might say, co-operates.’
    â€˜But why would your conscience be troubled, Emmanuel, even if you had one – which is a most unlikely supposition?’
    â€˜You must know that to be a member here I had to sign a declaration in favour of the Reform Act of 1832. True, that Act was not so bad as some of its successors, like giving the vote at eighteen, but it opened the gates to the pernicious doctrine of one man one vote. Even the Russians subscribe to that now for propaganda purposes, but they are clever enough to make sure that the things they can vote for in their own country are of no importance at all.’
    â€˜What a reactionary you are, Emmanuel. I do believe, though, there’s something in what you say about pudding and pastry. We might try out a pudding next year – if we are still able to afford a shoot.’
    â€˜If you can’t, it will be because of one man one vote. Be honest, John, and admit what a hash that stupid idea has made of Africa.’
    â€˜I suppose it takes time for true democracy to work.’
    â€˜That kind of democracy will never work.’
    â€˜Would you really like to go back to the householder’s vote, Emmanuel?’ Hargreaves could never tell to what extent Doctor Percival was really serious.
    â€˜Yes, why not? The income required for a man to vote would be properly adjusted, of course, each year to deal with inflation. Four thousand a year might be the proper level for getting a vote today. That would give the miners and dockers a vote, which would save us a lot of trouble.’
    After coffee they walked, by common consent, down the great Gladstonian stairs out into the chill of Pall Mall. The old brickwork of St James’s Palace glowed like a dying fire through the grey weather, and the sentry flickered scarlet – a last doomed flame. They crossed into the park and Doctor Percival said, ‘Returning for a moment to trout . . .’ They chose a bench where they could watch the ducks move with the effortlessness of magnetic toys across the surface of the pond. They both wore the same heavy tweed overcoats, the overcoats of men who live by choice in the country. A man wearing a bowler hat passed them; he was carrying an umbrella and he frowned at some thought of his own as he went by. ‘That’s Browne with an e,’ Doctor Percival said.
    â€˜What a lot of people you know, Emmanuel.’
    â€˜One of the PM’s economic advisers. I wouldn’t give him a vote whatever he