Derek looked up.
“Do you really want it, Granny?”
Nedda murmured across the table: “No, Derek.”
Frances Freeland raised her brows quizzically. She almost looked arch.
“But of course I do, darling. I want to hear immensely. It's so interesting.”
“Derek was going to say, Mother”—every one at once looked at Felix, who had thus broken in—“that all we West-End people—John and I and Flora and Stanley, and even you—all we people born in purple and fine linen, are so accustomed to think we're all that matters, that when we're out of London there's nobody in it. He meant to say that this is appalling enough, but that what is still more appalling is the fact that we really ARE all that matters, and that if people try to disturb us, we can, and jolly well will, take care they don't disturb us long. Is that what you meant, Derek?”
Derek turned a rather startled look on Felix.
“What he meant to say,” went on Felix, “was, that age and habit, vested interests, culture and security sit so heavy on this country's chest, that aspiration may wriggle and squirm but will never get from under. That, for all we pretend to admire enthusiasm and youth, and the rest of it, we push it out of us just a little faster than it grows up. Is that what you meant, Derek?”
“You'll try to, but you won't succeed!”
“I'm afraid we shall, and with a smile, too, so that you won't see us doing it.”