Frances Freeland, smiling, said: 

“It’s so nice for Derek and Sheila to be seeing it like this for the first time.”

Sheila said: 

“Why?  Isn’t it always as full as this?”

John answered: 

“In August practically empty.  They say a hundred thousand people, at least, go away.”

“Double!” remarked Felix.

“The figures are variously given.  My estimate—­”

“One in sixty.  That shows you!”

At this interruption of Derek’s John frowned slightly.  “What does it show you?” he said.

Derek glanced at his grandmother.

“Oh, nothing!”

“Of course it shows you,” exclaimed Sheila, “what a heartless great place it is.  All ‘the world’ goes out of town, and ‘London’s empty!’ But if you weren’t told so you’d never know the difference.”

Derek muttered:  “I think it shows more than that.”

Under the table Flora was touching John’s foot warningly; Nedda attempting to touch Derek’s; Felix endeavoring to catch John’s eye; Alan trying to catch Sheila’s; John biting his lip and looking carefully at nothing.  Only Frances Freeland was smiling and gazing lovingly at dear Derek, thinking he would be so handsome when he had grown a nice black moustache.  And she said: 

“Yes, dear.  What were you going to say?”

Derek looked up.

“Do you really want it, Granny?”

Nedda murmured across the table:  “No, Derek.”

Frances Freeland raised her brows quizzically.  She almost looked arch.

“But of course I do, darling.  I want to hear immensely.  It’s so interesting.”

“Derek was going to say, Mother”—­every one at once looked at Felix, who had thus broken in—­“that all we West-End people—­John and I and Flora and Stanley, and even you—­all we people born in purple and fine linen, are so accustomed to think we’re all that matters, that when we’re out of London there’s nobody in it.  He meant to say that this is appalling enough, but that what is still more appalling is the fact that we really are all that matters, and that if people try to disturb us, we can, and jolly well will, take care they don’t disturb us long.  Is that what you meant, Derek?”

Derek turned a rather startled look on Felix.

“What he meant to say,” went on Felix, “was, that age and habit, vested interests, culture and security sit so heavy on this country’s chest, that aspiration may wriggle and squirm but will never get from under.  That, for all we pretend to admire enthusiasm and youth, and the rest of it, we push it out of us just a little faster than it grows up.  Is that what you meant, Derek?”

“You’ll try to, but you won’t succeed!”

“I’m afraid we shall, and with a smile, too, so that you won’t see us doing it.”

“I call that devilish.”

“I call it natural.  Look at a man who’s growing old; notice how very gracefully and gradually he does it.  Take my hair—­your aunt says she can’t tell the difference from month to month.  And there it is, or rather isn’t—­little by little.”