It was an obvious convergence, this devotion of all the traits which composed, so Adrian imagined, the despicable soul that lay beneath his uncle’s unangled exterior:  undeviating self-indulgence; secrecy; utter selfishness—­he was selfish even to the woman he was supposed to love; that is, if he was capable of loving any one but himself—­a bland hypocrisy; an unthinking conformation to the dictates of an unthinking world.  The list could be multiplied.  But to sum it up, here was epitomized, beautifully, concretely, the main and minor vices of a generation for which Adrian found little pity in his heart; a generation brittle as ice; a generation of secret diplomacy; a generation that in its youth had covered a lack of bathing by a vast amount of perfume.  That was it—!  That expressed it perfectly!  The just summation!  Camellias, and double intentions in speech, and unnecessary reticences, and refusals to meet the truth, and a deliberate hiding of uglinesses!

Most of the time Adrian was too busy to think about his uncle at all—­he was a very busy man with his writing:  journalistic writing; essays, political reviews, propaganda—­and because he was busy he was usually well-content, and not uncharitable, except professionally; but once a month it was his duty to dine with his uncle, and then, for the rest of the night, he was disturbed, and awoke the next morning with the dusty feeling in his head of a man who has been slightly drunk.  Old wounds were recalled, old scars inflamed; a childhood in which his uncle’s figure had represented to him the terrors of sarcasm and repression; a youth in which, as his guardian, his uncle had deprecated all first fine hot-bloodednesses and enthusiasms; a young manhood in which he had been told cynically that the ways of society were good ways, and that the object of life was material advancement; advice which had been followed by the stimulus of an utter refusal to assist financially except where absolutely necessary.  There had been willingness, you understand, to provide a gentleman’s education, but no willingness to provide beyond that any of a gentleman’s perquisites.  That much of his early success had been due to this heroic upbringing, Adrian was too honest not to admit, but then—­by God, it had been hard!  All the colour of youth!  No time to dream—­except sorely!  Some warping, some perversion!  A gasping, heart-breaking knowledge that you could not possibly keep up with the people with whom, paradoxically enough, you were supposed to spend your leisure hours.  Here was the making of a radical.  And yet, despite all this, Adrian dined with his uncle once a month.

The mere fact that this was so, that it could be so, enraged him.  It seemed a renunciation of all he affirmed; an implicit falsehood.  He would have liked very much to have got to his feet, standing firmly on his two long, well-made legs, and have once and for all delivered himself of a final philippic.  The philippic would have ended something like this: