nd somehow, since then, I am
becoming interested in people for their own sakes. It's a--new
sensation."

He smiled and laid his hand over hers:

"Do you know I never even appreciated what a good man Alexander Cameron
is until recently. Why, mother, that man is one of the most generous,
modest, kind, charitable, unselfish fellows in the world!"

"His behaviour is sometimes a little extraordinary," said his
mother--"isn't it?"

"Oh, that's all on the surface! He's full of boyish spirits. He dearly
loves a joke--but the greater part of that interminable funny business
is merely to mask the modesty of a man whose particular perversity is a
fear that people might discover how kind and how clever he really is!"

They walked on in silence for a while, then his mother said:

"Mr. Querida was here. Is he a friend of yours?"

Neville hesitated: "I'll tell you, mother," he said, "I don't find
Querida personally very congenial. But I have no doubt he's an
exceedingly nice fellow. And he's far and away the best painter in
America.... When did he go back to town?"

"Last week. I did not care for him."

"You and father seldom do care for new acquaintances," he rejoined,
smiling. "Don't you think it is about time for you to emerge from your
shells and make up your minds that a few people have been born since you
retired?"

"People have been born in China, too, but that scarcely interests your
father and me."

"Let it interest you, mother. You have no idea how amusing new people
are. That's the way to keep young, too."

"It is a little too late for us to think of youth--or to think as youth
thinks--even if it were desirable."

"It _is_ desirable. Youth--which will be age to-morrow--may venture to
draw a little consideration in advance--"

"My children interest me--and I give their youth my full consideration.
But I can scarcely be expected to find any further vital interest in
youth--and in the complexity of its modern views and ideas. You ask
impossibilities of two very old people."

"I do not mean to. I ask only, then, that you and father take a vital
and intelligent interest in me. Will you, mother?"

"Intelligent? What do you mean, Louis?"

"I mean," he said, "that you might recognise my right to govern my own
conduct; that you might try to sympathise with views which are not your
own--with the ideas, ideals, desires, convictions which, if modern, are
none the less genuine--and are mine."

There was a brief s