“Them Labour chaps ought to be mowed down by machine guns,” said one of the men. “Dirty tykes!”
He was amazed when Bertram said he thought they had some justice on their side. It struck him “all of a heap.” They were all bloody Bolsheviks, begging his pardon.
Bertram himself was astonished at this point of view of men who had fought in the War and were of the same class as those in the world of “labour” they denounced. As he sauntered away, after a few light remarks, he supposed they were survivals of English feudalism. Their outlook was limited to the horizon of this old house. They belonged to the Family. They were for the maintenance of the Old Order which paid their wages, gave them perquisites, belonged to their tradition of service. The War hadn’t changed their mentality much. Strange!
He strolled round to the lake, and found Alban sitting on the end of the punt, smoking a cigarette and reading the Sporting Times, with his back to the wind. He was in an old heather-green jacket and grey, moss-stained trousers, with a cap at the back of his head, and looked better like that, to Bertram’s yes, than in his town clothes, with white spats and all.
“Good morning!” said Bertram, with more geniality than he quite felt, not having much affection for his brother-in-law.
Alban glanced over the top of the Sporting Times, and allowed himself to show a faint surprise.
“Hullo! Come down with Joyce?”
Assured on this point, he became absorbed again in his pink paper.
Bertram waited a little while for the condescension of another remark. Not obtaining that favour, he strolled away again, cursing inwardly at the incivility of his brother-in-law.
“A damned cad!” he said to himself. “An insufferable snob!”