Derek turned a rather startled look on Felix.

“What he meant to say,” went on Felix, “was, that age and habit, vested interests, culture and security sit so heavy on this country’s chest, that aspiration may wriggle and squirm but will never get from under.  That, for all we pretend to admire enthusiasm and youth, and the rest of it, we push it out of us just a little faster than it grows up.  Is that what you meant, Derek?”

“You’ll try to, but you won’t succeed!”

“I’m afraid we shall, and with a smile, too, so that you won’t see us doing it.”

“I call that devilish.”

“I call it natural.  Look at a man who’s growing old; notice how very gracefully and gradually he does it.  Take my hair—­your aunt says she can’t tell the difference from month to month.  And there it is, or rather isn’t—­little by little.”

Frances Freeland, who during Felix’s long speech had almost closed her eyes, opened them, and looked piercingly at the top of his head.

“Darling,” she said, “I’ve got the very thing for it.  You must take some with you when you go tonight.  John is going to try it.”

Checked in the flow of his philosophy, Felix blinked like an owl surprised.

“Mother,” he said, “You only have the gift of keeping young.”

“Oh! my dear, I’m getting dreadfully old.  I have the greatest difficulty in keeping awake sometimes when people are talking.  But I mean to fight against it.  It’s so dreadfully rude, and ugly, too; I catch myself sometimes with my mouth open.”

Flora said quietly:  “Granny, I have the very best thing for that—­ quite new!”

A sweet but rather rueful smile passed over Frances Freeland’s face.  “Now,” she said, “you’re chaffing me,” and her eyes looked loving.

It is doubtful if John understood the drift of Felix’s exordium, it is doubtful if he had quite listened—­he having so much to not listen to at the Home Office that the practice was growing on him.  A vested interest to John was a vested interest, culture was culture, and security was certainly security—­none of them were symbols of age.  Further, the social question—­at least so far as it had to do with outbreaks of youth and enthusiasm—­was too familiar to him to have any general significance whatever.  What with women, labor people, and the rest of it, he had no time for philosophy—­a dubious process at the best.  A man who had to get through so many daily hours of real work did not dissipate his energy in speculation.  But, though he had not listened to Felix’s remarks, they had ruffled him.  There is no philosophy quite so irritating as that of a brother!  True, no doubt, that the country was in a bad way, but as to vested interests and security, that was all nonsense!  The guilty causes were free thought and industrialism.

Having seen them all off to Hampstead, he gave his mother her good-night kiss.  He was proud of her, a wonderful woman, who always put a good face on everything!  Even her funny way of always having some new thing or other to do you good—­even that was all part of her wanting to make the best of things.  She never lost her ‘form’!