"You and father seldom do care for new acquaintances," he rejoined, smiling. "Don't you think it is about time for you to emerge from your shells and make up your minds that a few people have been born since you retired?"
"People have been born in China, too, but that scarcely interests your father and me."
"Let it interest you, mother. You have no idea how amusing new people are. That's the way to keep young, too."
"It is a little too late for us to think of youth—or to think as youth thinks—even if it were desirable."
"It is desirable. Youth—which will be age to-morrow—may venture to draw a little consideration in advance—"
"My children interest me—and I give their youth my full consideration. But I can scarcely be expected to find any further vital interest in youth—and in the complexity of its modern views and ideas. You ask impossibilities of two very old people."
"I do not mean to. I ask only, then, that you and father take a vital and intelligent interest in me. Will you, mother?"
"Intelligent? What do you mean, Louis?"
"I mean," he said, "that you might recognise my right to govern my own conduct; that you might try to sympathise with views which are not your own—with the ideas, ideals, desires, convictions which, if modern, are none the less genuine—and are mine."
There was a brief silence; then: