"Adam, you really mustn't——"
"It's because nobody speaks up that men of the old man's type get famous. It's a sign of your sloppy civilisation. You're all afraid—afraid of originality, afraid of work, afraid of hurting one another's feelings. You let any one come to the top who doesn't frighten you, and as soon as he dies you forget him and knight some other figurehead instead."
An unknown voice said, "Shocking, Mr. Adam, shocking. Such a dear old man, and quite celebrated, too."
"You'll soon get used to me, nurse."
The nurse laughed.
"Adam, it is a relief to have you," said Catherine after a pause. "I want you and your boy to help me with mine." Her voice sounded dimmer; she had turned from her father without a word of farewell. "One must profit by the mistakes of others ... after all, more heroism.... I am determined to keep in touch with my boy——"
"Larrup him," said Adam. "That's the secret." He followed his sister out of the room.
Then Henry's delightful laugh sounded for the last time. "You make us all feel twenty years younger," he said; "more like when——"
The door shut.
Sir Michael grew cold with rage. This was life, this was what the younger generation had been thinking. Adam he ignored, but at the recollection of Henry and Catherine he determined to die. If he chose, he could have risen from bed and driven the whole pack into the street. But he did not choose. He chose rather to leave this shoddy and ungrateful world. The immense and super-human cynicism that is latent in all of us came at last to the top and transformed him. He saw the absurdity of love, and the vision so tickled him that he began to laugh. The nurse, who had called him a dear old man, bent over him, and at the same moment two boys came into the sick-room.