“But who is this Billy Prothero?” she asked one evening in the walled garden.

“He was at Minchinghampton.”

“But who is he?  Who is his father?  Where does he come from?”

Benham sought in his mind for a space.  “I don’t know,” he said at last.  Billy had always been rather reticent about his people.  She demanded descriptions.  She demanded an account of Billy’s furniture, Billy’s clothes, Billy’s form of exercise.  It dawned upon Benham that for some inexplicable reason she was hostile to Billy.  It was like the unmasking of an ambuscade.  He had talked a lot about Prothero’s ideas and the discussions of social reform and social service that went on in his rooms, for Billy read at unknown times, and was open at all hours to any argumentative caller.  To Lady Marayne all ideas were obnoxious, a form of fogging; all ideas, she held, were queer ideas.  “And does he call himself a Socialist?” she asked.  “I thought he would.”

“Poff,” she cried suddenly, “you’re not a socialist?”

“Such a vague term.”

“But these friends of yours—­they seem to be all Socialists.  Red ties and everything complete.”

“They have ideas,” he evaded.  He tried to express it better.  “They give one something to take hold of.”

She sat up stiffly on the garden-seat.  She lifted her finger at him, very seriously.  “I hope,” she said with all her heart, “that you will have nothing to do with such ideas.  Nothing.  Socialism!”

“They make a case.”

“Pooh!  Any one can make a case.”

“But—­”

“There’s no sense in them.  What is the good of talking about upsetting everything?  Just disorder.  How can one do anything then?  You mustn’t.  You mustn’t.  No.  It’s nonsense, little Poff.  It’s absurd.  And you may spoil so much. . . .  I hate the way you talk of it. . . .  As if it wasn’t all—­absolutely—­rubbish. . . .”

She was earnest almost to the intonation of tears.

Why couldn’t her son go straight for his ends, clear tangible ends, as she had always done?  This thinking about everything!  She had never thought about anything in all her life for more than half an hour—­and it had always turned out remarkably well.

Benham felt baffled.  There was a pause.  How on earth could he go on telling her his ideas if this was how they were to be taken?

“I wish sometimes,” his mother said abruptly, with an unusually sharp note in her voice, “that you wouldn’t look quite so like your father.”

“But I’m not like my father!” said Benham puzzled.

“No,” she insisted, and with an air of appealing to his soberer reason, “so why should you go looking like him?  That concerned expression. . . .”

She jumped to her feet.  “Poff,” she said, “I want to go and see the evening primroses pop.  You and I are talking nonsense.  They don’t have ideas anyhow.  They just pop—­as God meant them to do.  What stupid things we human beings are!”