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Nothing. SOCIALISM!"
"They make a case."
"Pooh! Any one can make a case."
"But--"
"There's no sense in them. What is the good of talking about
upsetting everything? Just disorder. How can one do anything then?
You mustn't. You mustn't. No. It's nonsense, little Poff. It's
absurd. And you may spoil so much. . . . I HATE the way you talk
of it. . . . As if it wasn't all--absolutely--RUBBISH. . . ."
She was earnest almost to the intonation of tears.
Why couldn't her son go straight for his ends, clear tangible ends,
as she had always done? This thinking about everything! She had
never thought about anything in all her life for more than half an
hour--and it had always turned out remarkably well.
Benham felt baffled. There was a pause. How on earth could he go
on telling her his ideas if this was how they were to be taken?
"I wish sometimes," his mother said abruptly, with an unusually
sharp note in her voice, "that you wouldn't look quite so like your
father."
"But I'm NOT like my father!" said Benham puzzled.


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