“But the wood is older than your family,” said Connie gently.
“Quite!” said Clifford. “But we’ve preserved it. Except for us it would go … it would be gone already, like the rest of the forest. One must preserve some of the old England!”
“Must one?” said Connie. “If it has to be preserved, and preserved against the new England? It’s sad, I know.”
“If some of the old England isn’t preserved, there’ll be no England at all,” said Clifford. “And we who have this kind of property, and the feeling for it, must preserve it.”
There was a sad pause.
“Yes, for a little while,” said Connie.
“For a little while! It’s all we can do. We can only do our bit. I feel every man of my family has done his bit here, since we’ve had the place. One may go against convention, but one must keep up tradition.” Again there was a pause.
“What tradition?” asked Connie.
“The tradition of England! of this!”
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“That’s why having a son helps; one is only a link in a chain,” he said.
Connie was not keen on chains, but she said nothing. She was thinking of the curious impersonality of his desire for a son.
“I’m sorry we can’t have a son,” she said.
He looked at her steadily, with his full, pale-blue eyes.