women. What was his attitude? Had this sentimental dusk on this sentimental piece of water the mystery of the old illusions, and would it make very ordinary young women appear divinities? But surely—love—modern love—refused to pose upon pedestals. Sorrell could hear the lean, long-limbed girl of the day saying—"Come off it—you silly ass."
"Drifting,—just drifting," said Kit suddenly, and swinging the punt round; "what do people want"
Sorrell surveyed the first stars.
"That is youth's trouble. It does not know what it wants."
"Didn't you, pater?"
"Vague flashes. No,—not clearly. When I look back now I see that I was in a sort of enchanted fog. You would rush about and see—sudden things when the fog lifted for a moment. A bit of red sky, or a tree, or a silly full moon, or a girl's face. And you thought you wanted the moon or the girl's face. Perhaps, you got one of them,—and then the fog came down again, and you went on groping. But it's worse for two to be groping."
"It's sex," said Kit suddenly, leaning over his paddle, "sex,—that's what it is."
Sorrell raised himself on one elbow.
"The fog of sex. You have found that out! It took me twenty years, my son. But—hush!"
He laughed.
"We shall shock—the May Flies."
Kit surprised him.
"They take a lot more shocking than one thinks, pater. We aren't easily shocked. Were you?"
"We pretended to be."
"Why," he dug the paddle into the water and closed his mouth on some impulsive confession. Sorrell wondered. He told himself that a man got out of date. The young things had different ways of arranging the world, and at present they walked instead of dancing, and eschewed elemental curves. Obviously, Kit had met other young things and had parleyed with them. Sorrell's feeling was that for Kit woman was not upon a pedestal.
"You are aways saying, pater, that the job matters—more than—other things."
