of Roland’s rustic courtship was only exceeded by his positive fury when, on the first evening of the holidays, he went round to see the Curtises and found there Roland and his father. It was the height of hypocrisy. He had supposed that Roland would at least have the decency to keep away from her. It had been bad enough to give up a decent girl for a shop assistant, but to come back and carry on as though nothing had happened. … It was monstrous, cruel, unthinkable. And there was April, so clean and calm, with her thick brown hair gathered up in a loop across her forehead; her eyes, deep and gentle, with subdued colors, brown and a shade of green, and that delicate smile of simple trust and innocence, smiling at him, ignorant of how she had been deceived.
It must be set down, however, to Roland’s credit that he had felt a few qualms about going round at once to see the Curtises. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since he had held Dolly’s hand and protested to her an undying loyalty. He did not love her; the words meant nothing, and they both knew it; they were merely part of the convention of the game. Nor for that matter was he in love with April— at least he did not think he was. He owed nothing to either of them. But conscience told him that, in view of the understanding that was supposed to exist between them, it would be more proper to wait a day or two. After all, one did not go to a theater the day after one’s father’s funeral, however eagerly one’s imagination had anticipated the event.
Things had, however, turned out otherwise. At a quarter to six Mr. Whately returned from town. He was the manager of a bank, at a salary of seven hundred and fifty pounds a year, an income that allowed the family to visit the theater, upper circle seats, at least once every holidays and provided Roland with as much pocket money as he needed. Mr. Whately walked into the drawing-room, greeted his son with the conventional joke about a holiday task, handed his wife a copy of The Globe, sat down in front of the fire and began to take off his boots.
“Nothing much in the papers to-day, my dear. Not much happening anywhere as a matter of fact. I had lunch to-day with Robinson and he called it the lull before the storm. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he wasn’t right. You can’t trust these Radicals.”
He was a scrubby little man: for thirty years he had worked in the same house; there had been no friction and no excitement in his life; he had by now lost any independence of thought and action.
“I’ve just found a splendid place, my dear, where you can get a really first-class lunch for one-and-sixpence.”
“Have you, dear?”
“Yes; in Soho, just behind the Palace. I went there to-day with Robinson. We had four courses, and cheese to finish up with. Something like.”
“And was it well cooked, dear?”
“Rather; the plaice was beautifully fried. Just beginning to brown.”
His face flushed with a genuine animation. Change of food was the only adventure that life brought to him. He rose slowly.
“Well, I must go up and change, I suppose. I’ve one or two other things to tell you, dear, later on.”
He did not ask his wife what she had been doing during the day; it was indeed doubtful whether he appreciated the existence of any life at 105 Hammerton Villas, Hammerton, during the hours when he was away from them. He himself was the central point.
Five minutes later he came downstairs in a light suit.
“Well, who’s coming out with me for a constitutional?”
Roland got up, walked into the hall, picked up his hat and stick.
“Right you are, father; I’m ready.”
It was the same thing every day. At eight-thirty-five Mr. Whately caught a bus at the corner of the High Street. He had never been known to miss it. On the rare occasions when he was a few seconds late the driver would wait till he saw the panting little figure come running round the corner, trying to look dignified in spite of the top hat that bobbed from one side of his head to the other. From nine o’clock till a quarter-past five Mr. Whately worked at a desk, with an hour’s interval for lunch. Every evening he went for an hour’s walk; for half an hour before dinner he read the evening paper. After dinner he would play a game of patience and smoke his pipe. Occasionally a friend would drop in for a chat; very occasionally he would go out himself. At ten o’clock sharp he went to bed. Every Saturday afternoon he attended a public performance of either cricket or football according to the season. Roland often wondered how he could stand it. What had he to look forward to? What did he think about when he sat over the fire puffing at his pipe? And his mother. How monotonous her life appeared to him. Yet she seemed always happy enough; she never grumbled. Roland could not understand it. Whatever happened, he would take jolly good care that he never ran into a groove like that. They had loved each other well enough once, he supposed, but now—oh, well, love was the privilege of youth.
Father and son walked in silence. They were fond of each other; they liked being together; Mr. Whately was very proud of his son’s achievements; but their affection was never expressed in words. After a while they began to talk of indifferent things, guessing at each other’s thoughts: a relationship of intuitions. They passed along the High Street and, turning behind the shops, walked down a long street of small red brick villas with stucco fronts.
“Don’t you think we ought to go in and see the Curtises?” Mr. Whately asked.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t meant to. I thought. …”
“I think you ought to, you know, your first day; they’d be rather offended if you didn’t. April asked me when you were coming back.”
And so Roland was bound to abandon his virtuous resolution.
It was not a particularly jolly evening before Ralph arrived. Afterwards it was a good deal worse.
In the old days, when father and son had paid an evening visit, Roland had run straight up to the nursery and enjoyed himself, but now he had to sit in the drawing-room, which was a very different matter. He did not like Mrs. Curtis; he never had liked her, but she had not troubled him in the days when she had been a mere voice below the banisters. Now he had to sit in the small drawing-room, with its shut windows, and hear her voice cleave through the clammy atmosphere in languid, pathetic cadences; a sentimental voice, and under the sentiment a hard, cold cruelty. Her person was out of keeping with her voice; it should have been plump and comfortable looking; instead it was tall, thin, angular, all over points, like a hatrack in a restaurant: a terrible bedfellow. And she talked, heavens! how she talked. It was usually about her children.
“Dear Arthur, he’s getting on so well at school. Do you know what his headmaster said about him in his report?”
“Oh, but, mother, please,” Arthur would protest.
“No, dear, be quiet; I know Mr. Whately would like to hear. The headmaster said, Mr. Whately. …” Then it was her daughter’s turn. “And April, too, Mr. Whately, she’s getting on so well with her drawing lessons. Mr. Hamilton was only saying to me yesterday. …”
It was not surprising that Roland was less keen now on going round there. It was little fun for him after all to sit and listen while she talked, to see his father so utterly complacent, with his “Yes, Mrs. Curtis,” and his “Really, Mrs. Curtis,” and to look at poor April huddled in the window seat, so bored, so ashamed, her eyes meeting his with a look that said: “Don’t worry about her, don’t take any notice of what she says. I’m not like that.” Once or twice he tried to talk to her, but it was no use: her
