“I didn’t mean that politicians were self-seeking, Granny; I meant that they’re comfortable people, and the things that interest them are those that interest comfortable people.  What have they done for the laborers, for instance?”

“Oh, but, darling! they’re going to do a great deal.  In my paper they’re continually saying that.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t say so if they weren’t.  There’s quite a new plan, and it sounds most sensible.  And so I don’t think, darling, that if I were you I should make myself unhappy about all that kind of thing.  They must know best.  They’re all so much older than you.  And you’re getting quite a little line between your eyes.”

Derek smiled.

“All right, Granny; I shall have a big one soon.”

 Frances Freeland smiled, too, but shook her head.

“Yes; and that’s why I really think you ought to take interest in politics.”

“I’d rather take interest in you, Granny.  You’re very jolly to look at.”

Frances Freeland raised her brows.

“I?  My dear, I’m a perfect fright nowadays.”

Thus pushing away what her stoicism and perpetual aspiration to an impossibly good face would not suffer her to admit, she added: 

“Where would you like to drive this afternoon?”

For they took drives in a small victoria, Frances Freeland holding her sunshade to protect him from the sun whenever it made the mistake of being out.

On August the fourth he insisted that he was well and must go back home.  And, though to bring her attendance on him to an end was a grief, she humbly admitted that he must be wanting younger company, and, after one wistful attempt, made no further bones.  The following day they travelled.

On getting home he found that the police had been to see little Biddy Tryst, who was to be called as a witness.  Tod would take her over on the morning of the trial.  Derek did not wait for this, but on the day before the assizes repacked his bag and went off to the Royal Charles Hostel at Worcester.  He slept not at all that night, and next morning was early at the court, for Tryst’s case would be the first.  Anxiously he sat watching all the queer and formal happenings that mark the initiation of the higher justice—­the assemblage of the gentlemen in wigs; the sifting, shifting, settling of clerks, and ushers, solicitors, and the public; the busy indifference, the cheerful professionalism of it all.  He saw little Mr. Pogram come in, more square and rubbery than ever, and engage in conclave with one of the bewigged.  The smiles, shrugs, even the sharp expressions on that barrister’s face; the way he stood, twisting round, one hand wrapped in his gown, one foot on the bench behind; it was all as if he had done it hundreds of times before and cared not the snap of one of his thin, yellow fingers.  Then there was a sudden hush; the judge came in, bowed, and took his seat.  And that, too, seemed so professional.  Haunted by the thought of him to whom this was almost life and death, the boy was incapable of seeing how natural it was that they should not all feel as he did.