“Perhaps she will.”
“O Lord! Yes.”
“They’ll suppress her. Such things have been known.”
Redwood burst into desperate laughter. “The redundant royalty—the bouncing babe in the Iron Mask!” he said. “They’ll have to put her in the tallest tower of the old Weser Dreiburg castle and make holes in the ceilings as she grows from floor to floor! Well, I’m in the very same pickle. And Cossar and his three boys. And—Well, well.”
“There’ll be a fearful row,” Bensington repeated, not joining in the laughter. “A fearful row.”
“I suppose,” he argued, “you’ve really thought it out thoroughly, Redwood. You’re quite sure it wouldn’t be wiser to warn Winkles, wean your little boy gradually, and—and rely upon the Theoretical Triumph?”
“I wish to goodness you’d spend half an hour in my nursery when the Food’s a little late,” said Redwood, with a note of exasperation in his voice; “then you wouldn’t talk like that, Bensington. Besides—Fancy warning Winkles... No! The tide of this thing has caught us unawares, and whether we’re frightened or whether we’re not—we’ve got to swim!”
“I suppose we have,” said Bensington, staring at his toes. “Yes. We’ve got to swim. And your boy will have to swim, and Cossar’s boys—he’s given it to all three of them. Nothing partial about Cossar—all or nothing! And Her Serene Highness. And everything. We are going on making the Food. Cossar also. We’re only just in the dawn of the beginning, Redwood. It’s evident all sorts of things are to follow. Monstrous great things. But I can’t imagine them, Redwood. Except—”
He scanned his finger nails. He looked up at Redwood with eyes bland through his glasses.
“I’ve half a mind,” he adventured, “that Caterham is right. At times. It’s going to destroy the Proportions of Things. It’s going to dislocate—What isn’t it going to dislocate?”