‘If only I were clever!’ It was natural he should think of dear Nedda, but surely it was not that which gave him the little line.  He must be brooding about those other things.  He ought not to be melancholy like this and let anything prevent the sea from doing him good.  The habit—­hard-learned by the old, and especially the old of her particular sex—­of not wishing for the moon, or at all events of not letting others know that you are wishing for it, had long enabled Frances Freeland to talk cheerfully on the most indifferent subjects whether or no her heart were aching.  One’s heart often did ache, of course, but it simply didn’t do to let it interfere, making things uncomfortable for others.  And once she said to him:  “You know, darling, I think it would be so nice for you to take a little interest in politics.  They’re very absorbing when you once get into them.  I find my paper most enthralling.  And it really has very good principles.”

“If politics did anything for those who most need things done, Granny—­but I can’t see that they do.”

She thought a little, then, making firm her lips, said: 

“I don’t think that’s quite just, darling, there are a great many politicians who are very much looked up to—­all the bishops, for instance, and others whom nobody could suspect of self-seeking.”

“I didn’t mean that politicians were self-seeking, Granny; I meant that they’re comfortable people, and the things that interest them are those that interest comfortable people.  What have they done for the laborers, for instance?”

“Oh, but, darling! they’re going to do a great deal.  In my paper they’re continually saying that.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t say so if they weren’t.  There’s quite a new plan, and it sounds most sensible.  And so I don’t think, darling, that if I were you I should make myself unhappy about all that kind of thing.  They must know best.  They’re all so much older than you.  And you’re getting quite a little line between your eyes.”

Derek smiled.

“All right, Granny; I shall have a big one soon.”

 Frances Freeland smiled, too, but shook her head.

“Yes; and that’s why I really think you ought to take interest in politics.”

“I’d rather take interest in you, Granny.  You’re very jolly to look at.”

Frances Freeland raised her brows.

“I?  My dear, I’m a perfect fright nowadays.”

Thus pushing away what her stoicism and perpetual aspiration to an impossibly good face would not suffer her to admit, she added: 

“Where would you like to drive this afternoon?”

For they took drives in a small victoria, Frances Freeland holding her sunshade to protect him from the sun whenever it made the mistake of being out.

On August the fourth he insisted that he was well and must go back home.  And, though to bring her attendance on him to an end was a grief, she humbly admitted that he must be wanting younger company, and, after one wistful attempt, made no further bones.  The following day they travelled.