The sailor in Rear-Admiral Billy cuddled his beard. "Damned if I know why I came," he ejaculated. "We can't _do_ anything, either of us. Young people are the very deuce. I don't know what your son's like, but mine's as obstinate as a mule." "You've spoken to your son then?" The novelist in Julia could not restrain a smile at her opponent's incapacity as a diplomat. "Spoken to him? Of course I've spoken to him. I've done nothing else but speak to him." The sailor waxed confidential. "But what's the use? Sons don't care a cuss about their fathers nowadays, nor about their mothers, either." "I'm sure mine does." "Don't you believe it. None of 'em care about their parents. They call us 'Victorians'--whatever that may mean. Ungrateful young puppies!" Seeing her man mollified and disposed for confidences, Julia thought it best to let him "return to his muttons" in his own way. "Nice little woman, Aliette," he said, apropos of nothing in particular. "Not like these up-to-date hussies." "A charming woman, I call her." "Pity her kicking over the traces like this." "You're sorry for her, then?" "Sorry for her? Of course I'm sorry for her. I'm sorry for any woman who makes a hash of things. But that"--the disciplinarian, finding that the luxurious room and the pleasant creature on the sofa were both affecting his judgment, momentarily revolted--"that don't alter facts. Marriage is marriage; and if your son runs away with my son's wife, you can't expect me to sympathize with either of 'em." "But surely," Julia nearly purred, "surely, my dear admiral--sympathy apart--your son doesn't intend----" "My dear lady,"--the disciplinarian in Billy subsided--"if I only knew what my son did intend, I might be able to help you. Whenever I try to talk to him about this business, he just shuts me up. What has _your_ son got to say?" And suddenly both of them began to laugh. Old age, the greatest tie in the world, made them for the moment peculiarly comrades. In the light of that comradeship, the young, even their own young, seemed less pathetic than to be envied. "After all," they thought, "it's all very sad; but it's worse for us than for them. They do get some fun out of these affairs. We don't. We only get the trouble; and we're too old for troubles." "It isn't so much the scandal I mind," broke in the admiral, voicing their mutual idea; "it's the damned upset of the whole business. I like a quiet life, you know. And that seems the one thing one simply can't get nowadays. Not for love nor money." For fully ten minutes they wandered away from the purpose in hand; discussing first their own era, then his profession, then her profession. "Talking about books," said the admiral, "give me Surtees."