Frank guessed this.
“Ah, I have three,” he said; “perhaps mine will do.”
Helen laughed, and, after a moment, he went on:
“I believe that curiosity which is a convenient expression to sum up all this passion for the new,” he said, “is quite modern. I don’t think, at least, that the generation to which our aunts belong had it, with certain adorable exceptions, like Lady Sunningdale, anything like to the extent we have it. What was good enough for our grandfathers was nearly good enough for our fathers. But what was good enough for our fathers is not nearly good enough for us.”
She turned a quick, luminous glance at him. He was talking about things that very much concerned her.
“Ah, that is interesting,” she said, eagerly. “Give me more news of that.”
“It has struck you, too?” he asked.
“Your saying it reminds me that I knew it all the time.”
“I know what you mean. Yes, I think it is the case. At any rate, take yourself, Martin, and me,—all, I expect, quite normal people. Well, we all want to wander, to experience everything. We are probably not really afraid of any experience that could conceivably happen to us. And we claim the right to all experience. We claim the right to our own individuality, too. It seems to us quite certainly ours; the only possession we have which is inalienable. We may lose everything else, from our character to our teeth, but not our individuality. Do you remember how Magda throws her arms wide, and cries, ‘Son Io!’—‘I am I’? That somewhat important point had never struck her father or mother. Poor things! They thought she was a sort of them. Is that bad grammar?”
Their way lay at this point through one of the game covers, and a sudden piteous crying, dreadfully human, arose from the bushes near the path. Helen stopped with fright and horror in her face.