‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. That is very bad, certainly, and for this he was extremely sorry. About this conception of ownership he perceived and desired a certain sentimental glamour, he liked everything properly dressed, but it remained ownership. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that.
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