Youth in age rests on memory of youth when youth is but a memory; and a ripe memory is never sour. If age could reconcile grey hairs with gay heirs there would be more super-men than snooper-men, and less to follow the figure of Fat than the finger of Fate. Too often, when age comes in at the door youth flies out of the window. The reason is reasonable when age has forgotten to remember the days when the sun meant more than page 15 an illumination for the accumulation of perspiration and acclamation; when days were more than a daze; when the breath of Heaven was the aroma of Romance and not a pair of pants for running in the race for riches; when “knowledge” was a blight and wisdom was not learnt but lived. In the circumstances who can blame youth for putting age on the spot; for even a donkey can get a kick out of life occasionally.