“I know,” he said gloomily; “but they won't come to anything. Age has got my head, Mother, just as it's got 'the Land's.'”
“Oh, nonsense! You must go on with it, that's all!”
Felix turned so that he could look at her. She was moving round the room now, meticulously adjusting the framed photographs of her family that were the only decoration of the walls. How formal, chiselled, and delicate her face, yet how almost fanatically decisive! How frail and light her figure, yet how indomitably active! And the memory assailed him of how, four years ago, she had defeated double pneumonia without having a doctor, simply by lying on her back. 'She leaves trouble,' he thought, 'until it's under her nose, then simply tells it that it isn't there. There's something very English about that.'
She was chasing a bluebottle now with a little fan made of wire, and, coming close to Felix, said:
“Have you seen these, darling? You've only to hit the fly and it kills him at once.”
“But do you ever hit the fly?”
“Oh, yes!” And she waved the fan at the bluebottle, which avoided it without seeming difficulty.
“I can't bear hurting them, but I DON'T like flies. There!”
The bluebottle flew out of the window behind Felix and in at the one that was not behind him. He rose.
“You ought to rest before tea, Mother.”