“Will you adore your country right or wrong so help you God and the Tory Party?” “I will again,” said Pym, laughing. “Do you also believe that to be born British is to be born a winner in the great lottery of life?” “Well, yes, to be honest, that too.” “Then be a spy,” his interlocutor suggested and drew from his desk yet another application form and handed it to Pym. “Jack Brotherhood sends his love, and says why on earth haven’t you been in touch with him, and why won’t you have lunch with his nice recruiter?”
