He was the most completely careless of optimists, refused to be brought down to any stern fact whatever, hated any strong emotion or stringent relations with anyone, treated his wife and children as the most delightful accidents against whom he had, most happily tumbled; his kindness of heart was equalled only by the lightning speed with which he forgot the benefits that he had conferred and the persons upon whom he had conferred them ... like a happy bird, he went carolling through life. Alone, of all living beings, his daughter Katherine had bound him to her with cords; for the rest, he loved and forgot them all. Now, on this family occasion of his father’s birthday—his father was eighty-seven to-day—he was absolutely happy. He was proud of his family when any definite occasion, such as this, compelled him to think of it; he considered that it had all been a very jolly, pleasant dinner, that there would certainly follow a very jolly, pleasant evening. He liked, especially, to have his brother, Timothy, with him—he loved them all, bless their hearts—he felt, as he assured them, “Not a day more than twenty.” “How do you really think Father is, George?” asked Timothy. “Sound as a bell,” said Henry’s father, “getting deaf of course—must expect that—but it’s my belief that the harder his hearing the brighter his eyes—never knew anyone so sharp. Nothing escapes him, ’pon my soul.” “Well,” said George Trenchard, “I think it a most satisfactory thing that here we should all be again—healthy, happy, sound as so many bells—lively as crickets—not a happier family in England.” “Don’t say that, George,” said Uncle Tim, “most unlucky.” “Nonsense,” said George Trenchard, brushing Uncle Tim aside like a fly, “Nonsense. We’re a happy family, a healthy family and a united family.” “I drink my gratitude to the God of Family Life, who-ever He is....” He finished his glass of Port. “Here, Timothy, have another glass. It’s a Port in a million, so it is.” But Uncle Tim shook his head. “It’s all very well, George, but you’ll have to break up soon. The girls will be marrying—Katherine and Millicent—” “Rot,” said George, “Millie’s still at school.” “She’s coming home very soon—very shortly I believe. And besides you can’t keep a family together as you used to. You can’t. No one cares about the home at all now-a-days. These youngsters will find that out soon enough. You’ll be deserting the nest immediately, Henry, my friend, won’t you?” This sudden appeal, of course, confused Henry terribly. He choked over his wine, coloured crimson, stammered out: “No, Uncle Tim—Of course—Of course—not.” George Trenchard looked at his son with approval. “That’s right. Stick to your old father while you can. The matter with you, Tim, is that you live outside the world and don’t know what’s going on.”