The sailor in Rear-Admiral Billy cuddled his beard. "Damned if I know why I came," he ejaculated. "We can't do anything, either of us. Young people are the very deuce. I don't know what your son's like, but mine's as obstinate as a mule."
"You've spoken to your son then?" The novelist in Julia could not restrain a smile at her opponent's incapacity as a diplomat.
"Spoken to him? Of course I've spoken to him. I've done nothing else but speak to him." The sailor waxed confidential. "But what's the use? Sons don't care a cuss about their fathers nowadays, nor about their mothers, either."
"I'm sure mine does."
"Don't you believe it. None of 'em care about their parents. They call us 'Victorians'--whatever that may mean. Ungrateful young puppies!"
Seeing her man mollified and disposed for confidences, Julia thought it best to let him "return to his muttons" in his own way.
"Nice little woman, Aliette," he said, apropos of nothing in particular. "Not like these up-to-date hussies."
"A charming woman, I call her."
"Pity her kicking over the traces like this."
"You're sorry for her, then?"