"Because people won't think clearly and bravely!" cried Jeremy, with a thump on the bench. "Because they're hidebound, and, as I say, the priests heaven-and-hell them till they don't know where they are."
"Heaven-and-hell them! Good phrase, Jeremy! You speak feelingly. Your father, perhaps——? Oh, excuse me, I'm one of the family now."
"My father? Not a bit. Old Mumples now, if you like. However that's got nothing to do with it. I'm going on the lines of pure reason. And what is pure reason?"
The elder men looked at one another, smiled, and shook their heads.
"We don't know; it's no use pretending we do. You tell us, Jeremy," said Grantley.
"It's just nature—nature—nature! Get back to that, and you're on solid ground. Why, apart from anything else, how can you expect marriage, as we have it, to succeed when women are what they are? And haven't they always been the same? Of course they have. Read history, read fiction (though it isn't worth reading), read science; and look at the world round about you."
He waved his arm extensively, taking in much more than the valley in which most of his short life had been spent.
"If I'd thought as you do at your age," said Courtland, "I should have kept out of a lot of trouble."
"And I should have kept out of a lot of scrapes," added Grantley.
"Of course you would!" snapped Jeremy.