"He has no enthusiasm--no emotion. I can't understand him. At his age, I venture to say, I would-- Well, I've come to you. You've had thirty years' experience of boys." "Yes," said Granby with his reserved, pedagogic manner. "I've been at it thirty years." He stared at the floor and then, looking up, added: "But I've only had four years of boys as they are now." This was a new idea to Brougham. "You mean boys are different?" "Of course, they're different!" said Granby. "Even we are different, and they-- Boys I was giving demerits to and scolding about Latin prose last winter are fighting the war for us to-day. Roberts--I used to make Roberts' life a burden to him about the dative of reference--he was killed last month rescuing his machine gun; and here I am doing the same safe task-- Well, I never felt like that about my work before. Different? Of course they're different! They are not boys any more. They are men; and we are old men." There was, naturally enough, a pause, for this was by no means a conception of life which Mr. Brougham could accept offhand; and in the silence the door opened and David himself strode in--and stopped with every appearance of disappointment on seeing his father. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I'm afraid I'm interrupting you. I'll come back." "What did you want?" said Mr. Granby. David paused, looking less like a man and more like a boy in his indecision. Then his jaw set as he took his determination. "I wanted you to tell my father something, but as long as he's here I'd better tell him myself. I took the examinations last month for an aviation camp, and I've just heard that I'm accepted." Relief and horror struggling in Mr. Brougham like opposing waves resulted in calm. "But, my son," he said, "why have you concealed it? You did not think I'd oppose you?" David moved restlessly. "Oh, no," he answered. "It wasn't that." He looked at Mr. Granby and smiled. "Father's awfully tyrannical about this war," he said. "He wants everyone to feel just as he does." "But don't you feel as I do?" asked his father. "Why, you've just proved that you do!" "Not a bit!" said David, and he spoke with a force neither of the men had ever heard from him before. "I don't feel a bit as you do, sir, and what's more, I don't want to!" He stopped. "But we needn't go into that," he added, and seemed about to leave the room. Granby looked at Brougham. "It must be right here if we could get at it," he said. "Tell us, David, what is it in your father's attitude that you don't sympathize with?" "And my mother's too." "And mine?" asked Granby. David hesitated an instant. "You don't seem to care so much about having us all feel the way you do if what we do is right. But my father and mother don't care what I do unless I get excited about it."