“Yes, b’Jove! We saw that, didn’t we, Mums? And the little baggage sided against us. But we held our own—we held our own.”
Lady Selina smiled maternally, catching an echo of Brian’s father. Cicely replied sharply:
“If you hold on too tight to what you think is your own, you may lose it, if democracy wins this war.”
“Hark to her!” exclaimed Brian. “What a cry!”
Cicely, however, saw the expediency of running mute. She kissed her mother and brother and went to bed. Lady Selina turned troubled eyes upon her son.
“Have I made a mistake in being civil to this friend of yours, Brian?”
Brian hastened to reassure her: Old Grimmer was a thundering good sort. And a mighty clever fellow, not likely to quarrel with his bread-and-butter. Civility would tie him to his mother’s apron-strings. Nothing like it. Ask him to shoot! Introduce him to all the swells! But keep an eye peeled on Cis. Modern girls kicked over the traces. Arthur Wilverley meant business. Any fool could see that. Grimshaw was a gentleman. He wouldn’t attempt to poach in another fellow’s preserves. All the same, make him feel the weight of obligation. Be civil, be kind—keep it up!
Lady Selina was not quite comforted.
“Your Old Grimmer is very attractive. And, to-night, it seemed to me that poor dear Arthur was rather eclipsed. Sometimes, Brian, I feel discouraged, and then I want support. I can’t argue with Arthur, for instance. He overwhelms me with words—words. And then, like your father, I say nothing. But it comforts me greatly to feel that you think as I do, that the old ways suffice you.”
“Ra-ther!”