‘Now what the . . . Get well from WHAT? What’s supposed to be my fatal sickness?’

‘This insomnia. All this fretting about Howard and me. And — do let me say it, Father, in all friendliness — this crazy restlessness. The idea that you’d enjoy wandering, or taking up some hobby that you’re too old to start on. Please! I don’t think you’re selfish in being willing to leave us flat — not entirely selfish, at least; I won’t even say it’s utterly absurd; but I do think you fool yourself. If instead of riding off in all directions at once, like Leacock’s hero, you would relax and go to some place where the doctors are accustomed to advise people and help them to get into shape . . .’

Fred was angry now:

‘“Get in shape”! “Get well”! Good Lord, girl! I’ve been told there are wives who believe that any husband who doesn’t absolutely slave himself to death for the little woman is a dirty traitor, and ought to have his head examined by the docs. Now looks as though wives are getting over that notion, and the children are taking it up. By golly, I thought the younger generation during Prohibition was bad enough — the generation of Flaming Gin — but I swear they were better than the present Youth, that despise their folks if they forget a quotation they haven’t looked at these thirty years, or if they think they got just as much right to travel and buy clothes with their own money as their kids have and . . . I couldn’t get your switching from Red Radicalism to Society Upholstering, but now I see you’re consistent: in both cases, you think that the world was born in 1917, and everything we thought we knew or we thought we were doing before then was idiotic. Well, let me tell you . . .’

‘Father, have you had a drink of liquor this morning?’

It was almost a knockout, but he rallied.

‘I have not, and you know it.’

‘Well, certainly you’d never talk in such a wild, senseless, exaggerated way if you really were WELL. And this insomnia of yours . . .’

‘Got it yourself, ain’t you?’

‘With me, it’s different. I’m a creative artist.’

‘And I suppose I’m just a pedlar!’

‘You used the word, dear! I didn’t!’

‘Oh, Sara, don’t let’s scrap! You almost seemed like my girl, to-night, when you came in first. You’re too young to understand that old codgers like me can change, too — a few of us — and push out old habits with a set of new ones — same as when I get to humming a tune till it bores me, I start another tune to chase it out.’

‘That’s curious! That’s practically what Dr. George Janissary says — you know, the famous psychiatrist — I met him once at dinner, when I lived in New York. You sounded like him — for a moment, I mean.’