Somewhat baffled, Felix proceeded:
“I say, Derek, fortunately or unfortunately, I've some claim now to a little knowledge of you. You've got to open out a bit to me. What are you going to do with yourself in life? You can't support Nedda on revolution.”
Having drawn this bow at a venture, he paused, doubtful of his wisdom. A glance at Derek's face confirmed his doubt. It was closer than ever, more defiant.
“There's a lot of money in revolution, Uncle Felix—other people's.”
Dash the young brute! There was something in him! He swerved off to a fresh line.
“How do you like London?”
“I don't like it. But, Uncle Felix, don't you wish YOU were seeing it for the first time? What books you'd write!”
Felix felt that unconscious thrust go 'home.' Revolt against staleness and clipped wings, against the terrible security of his too solid reputation, smote him.
“What strikes you most about it, then?” he asked.
“That it ought to be jolly well blown up. Everybody seems to know that, too—they look it, anyway, and yet they go on as if it oughtn't.”