"If he were to marry a girl of that class—" "Girl of what class? What’s the good word?" Mrs. Collingham turned on her son, who stood on the threshold of one of the French windows. "We’re talking about men and women marrying outside of their own class, Bob, and I was trying to say how fatal it was." "Good Lord! mother, do people still think things like that? I thought they’d rung the bells on them even at Marillo. Wasn’t it one of the things we fought for in the war—to wipe out the lines of caste?" "But not to wipe out ideals, Bob. What fathers and mothers have worked to build up their sons fought to maintain." Max, the police-dog puppy, who had been poking his nose between Bob’s legs, now squeezed his vigorous person through the opening and came out on the terrace joyously. Wagging his powerful tail and sniffing about each of the ladies in turn, he seemed to be saying: "Don’t you see that I’m here? Now cheer up, everybody, and let’s have a good time." Bob made a feint at seconding this invitation. Going up to his mother, he slipped an arm round her waist and kissed her. "Old lady, you’re years behind the times. What fathers and mothers built turned out to be a rotten old world which they’ve handed to us to bolster up. We’re tackling the job as well as we can, but you must give us a free hand." Releasing herself from his embrace, she stood with an air of authority. "If giving you a free hand means looking on at the frustration of our hopes, you’ll have to learn, Bob, that your father and mother still have some of the energy that placed you where you are." "Of course you’ve placed us where we are, mother dear," Edith agreed, pacifically, "but that’s just the point. Because we are where you’ve placed us, we’re crazy to go on to something else. Isn’t that the way of life—the perpetual struggle for what we haven’t got? Because you and father didn’t have a big house and a big position to begin with, you worked till you got them. Bob and I were born to them, and so—" "It’s this way, old lady," Bob broke in. "All your generation had bigness on the brain. It was a kind of disease like the water that swells a baby’s head. They used to think it was a specially American disease till they found out it was English, French, German, and every other old thing. The whole lot of you puffed up till the earth hadn’t room for you, and you made the war to push one another off." "I didn’t make the war, Bob. I’ve never been anything but a poor mother, striving and praying for her children." "Well, you did push one another off—to the tune of ten or twelve millions, mostly the young. Since then, the universal disease of swelled head is being got under control, as they say of epidemics. Only the left-overs catch it still, and Edith and I aren’t that. Hardly anyone of our age is. We just don’t take the germ. Not that we blame you and your lot, old lady—" "Thanks, Bob." "Oh, don’t thank me. I’m just telling you." "And the point of your homily is—"