ndgoadhertwoplaindaughterstoclimbtherungsoftheladder.
"Iwasdownattheracesyesterday,"shesaid,"withmytwolittlegirls."
ItwasnoneofTHEIRfaulteither.Intheycametothedrawing-room,inwhitefrocksandbluesashes.Theyhandedthecigarettes.Rhodahadinheritedherfather'scoldgreyeyes.ColdgreyeyesGeorgePlumerhad,butinthemwasanabstractlight.HecouldtalkaboutPersiaandtheTradewinds,theReformBillandthecycleoftheharvests.BookswereonhisshelvesbyWellsandShawonthetableserioussix-pennyweeklieswrittenbypalemeninmuddyboots—theweeklycreakandscreechofbrainsrinsedincoldwaterandwrungdry—melancholypapers.
"Idon'tfeelthatIknowthetruthaboutanythingtillI'vereadthemboth!"saidMrs.Plumerbrightly,tappingthetableofcontentswithherbareredhand,uponwhichtheringlookedsoincongruous.
"OhGod,ohGod,ohGod!"exclaimedJacob,asthefourundergraduatesleftthehouse."Oh,myGod!"
"Bloodybeastly!"hesaid,scanningthestreetforlilacorbicycle—anythingtorestorehissenseoffreedom.
"Bloodybeastly,"hesaidtoTimmyDurrant,summinguphisdiscomfortattheworldshownhimatlunch-time,aworldcapableofexisting—therewasnodoubtaboutthat—butsounnecessary,suchathingtobelievein—ShawandWellsandtheserioussixpennyweeklies!Whatweretheyafter,scrubbinganddemolishing,theseelderlypeople?HadtheyneverreadHomer,Shakespeare,theElizabethans?Hesawitclearlyoutlinedagainstthefeelingshedrewfromyouthandnaturalinclination.Thepoordevilshadriggedupthismeagreobject.Yetsomethingofpitywasinhim.Thosewretchedlittlegirls—
Theextenttowhichhewasdisturbedprovesthathewasalreadyagog.Insolenthewasandinexperienced,butsureenoughthecitieswhichtheelderlyoftheracehavebuiltupontheskylineshowedlikebricksuburbs,barracks,andplacesofdisciplineagainstaredandyellowflame.Hewasimpressionablebutthewordiscontradictedbythecomposurewithwhichhehollowedhishandtoscreenamatch.Hewasayoungmanofsubstance.
Anyhow,whetherundergraduateorshopboy,manorwoman,itmustcomeasashockabouttheageoftwenty—theworldoftheelderly—thrownupinsuchblackoutlineuponwhatweareupontherealitythemoorsandByrontheseaandthelighthousethesheep'sjawwiththeyellowteethinitupontheobstinateirrepressibleconvictionwhichmakesyouthsointolerablydisagreeable—"IamwhatIam,andintendtobeit,"forwhichtherewillbenoformintheworldunlessJacobmakesoneforhimself.ThePlumerswilltrytopreventhimfrommakingit.WellsandShawandtheserioussixpennyweeklieswillsitonitshead.EverytimehelunchesoutonSunday—atdinnerpartiesandteaparties—therewillbethissameshock—horror—discomfort—thenpleasure,forhedrawsintohimateverystepashewalksbytheriversuchsteadycertainty,suchreassurancefromallsides,thetreesbowing,thegreyspiressoftintheblue,voicesblowingandseemingsuspendedintheair,thespringyairofMay,theelasticairwithitsparticles—chestnutbloom,pollen,whateveritisthatgivestheMayairitspotency,blurringthetrees,gummingthebuds,daubingthegreen