“Excuse me while I sit here and let my temper cool down,” Lydia said. “Adults. I hate adults. I dislike adults in general, but my aunt and uncle in particular. Uncle Henry hates me having an opinion. “When you are older, Lydia, you will be entitled to an opinion, but until then you should give way to your elders,” he said at breakfast time. And Aunt Elizabeth, in her stiff voice added: “Opinions are dangerous things; one must be sure that one’s opinions are wise and shared by many.” Wise and shared by many. Her voice grates on me. I’d far rather have Uncle Henry’s gruff voice than her stiff one. However, an opinion is an opinion and I’d would rather have an unwise opinion and have it alone in the entire universe than not have one at all.

Chesterton, my cousin, has his opinions. He holds them quite strongly. “That Hitler chap needs to be watched,” he said at dinner the other night. “Germany is getting dangerously strong,” he added, giving me the over-the-nose glance. And Florence, my other cousin of this family, said that she thought Mr. Hitler had made Germany somewhere decent to live after the horrors of the Twenties with all that unemployment and communists everywhere. Uncle Henry grunted when Florence made her views known. Aunt Elizabeth just pulled a face as if she was in discomfort and a piece of toast had lodged in her throat. I just listened at first, but then I said, “Herr Hitler isn’t so friendly with the Jews.” And Uncle Henry gruffly said that I was too young to have an opinion about such matters and that children should be visible but not heard. Visible but not heard, I ask you. I’d rather be invisible and bellow my head off to use the expression. Aunt Elizabeth said nothing about Herr Hitler. She was more concerned about my dress. “It’s too short, Lydia. You’ve grown out of it. Why you must grow so fast is beyond me,” she moaned, staring at me over her piece of toast. As if it were my fault, I have grown this last month or so. “You ought not to walk about with your dress so short, there are men about the grounds,” she added when I made no comment. There are two gardeners. Fulbright never lifts his eyes from his plants and Hardy wouldn’t notice if I walked about naked banging a drum.