Notwithstanding her grey
hair, she was still a remarkably young-looking woman, with a great
reputation as a hostess.
"My dear Julian," she exclaimed, "you look like a ghost! Don't
tell me that you had to sit up all night to shoot those wretched
duck?"
Julian drew a chair to his mother's side and seated himself with a
little air of relief.
"Never have I been more conscious of the inroads of age," he
confided. "I can remember when, ten or fifteen years ago, I used
to steal out of the house in the darkness and bicycle down to the
marsh with a twenty-bore gun, on the chance of an odd shot."
"And I suppose," his mother went on, "after spending half the
night wading about in the salt water, you spent the other half
talking to that terrible Mr. Furley."
"Quite right. We got cold and wet through in the evening; we sat
up talking till the small hours; we got cold and wet again this
morning--and here I am."
"A converted sportsman," his mother observed. "I wish you could
convert your friend, Mr. Furley. There's a perfectly terrible
article of his in the National this month. I can't understand a
word of it, but it reads like sheer anarchy."
"So long as the world exists," Julian remarked, "there must be
Socialists, and Furley is at least honest."
"My dear Julian," his mother protested, "how can a Socialist be
honest! Their attitude with regard to the war, too, is simply
disgraceful. I am sure that in any other country that man Fenn,
for instance, would be shot.
Pages:
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46