“They make me feel as if I were part of something heavy sitting on something else, and all the time talking about how to make things lighter for the thing it's sitting on.”
A vague recollection of somebody—some writer, a dangerous one—having said something of this sort flitted through John.
“Do YOU think England is done for, Uncle—I mean about 'the Land'?”
In spite of his conviction that 'the country was in a bad way,' John was deeply, intimately shocked by that simple little question. Done for! Never! Whatever might be happening underneath, there must be no confession of that. No! the country would keep its form. The country would breathe through its nose, even if it did lose the race. It must never know, or let others know, even if it were beaten. And he said:
“What on earth put that into your head?”
“Only that it seems funny, if we're getting richer and richer, and yet all the time farther and farther away from the life that every one agrees is the best for health and happiness. Father put it into my head, making me look at the little, towny people in Transham this afternoon. I know I mean to begin at once to learn about farm work.”
“You?” This pretty young thing with the dark head and the pale, slim shoulders! Farm work! Women were certainly getting queer. In his department he had almost daily evidence of that!
“I should have thought art was more in your line!”
Nedda looked up at him; and he was touched by that look, so straight and young.
“It's this. I don't believe Derek will be able to stay in England. When you feel very strongly about things it must be awfully difficult to.”