“I don't think that's quite just, darling, there are a great many politicians who are very much looked up to—all the bishops, for instance, and others whom nobody could suspect of self-seeking.” “I didn't mean that politicians were self-seeking, Granny; I meant that they're comfortable people, and the things that interest them are those that interest comfortable people. What have they done for the laborers, for instance?” “Oh, but, darling! they're going to do a great deal. In my paper they're continually saying that.” “Do you believe it?” “I'm sure they wouldn't say so if they weren't. There's quite a new plan, and it sounds most sensible. And so I don't think, darling, that if I were you I should make myself unhappy about all that kind of thing. They must know best. They're all so much older than you. And you're getting quite a little line between your eyes.” Derek smiled. “All right, Granny; I shall have a big one soon.” Frances Freeland smiled, too, but shook her head. “Yes; and that's why I really think you ought to take interest in politics.” “I'd rather take interest in you, Granny. You're very jolly to look at.” Frances Freeland raised her brows. “I? My dear, I'm a perfect fright nowadays.” Thus pushing away what her stoicism and perpetual aspiration to an impossibly good face would not suffer her to admit, she added: “Where would you like to drive this afternoon?” For they took drives in a small victoria, Frances Freeland holding her sunshade to protect him from the sun whenever it made the mistake of being out. On August the fourth he insisted that he was well and must go back home. And, though to bring her attendance on him to an end was a grief, she humbly admitted that he must be wanting younger company, and, after one wistful attempt, made no further bones. The following day they travelled.