“Don’t be absurd; of course you do; it was arranged a long time ago.”
“No, it wasn’t; nothing’s been arranged. We’re not engaged, and I won’t have all this talk about ‘when Roland and April are married.’ Do you hear? I will not have it!”
It was a surprising outburst. Roland was usually so even tempered, and the moment afterwards he was bitterly ashamed of himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was saying.”
For a moment his father did not answer him. Then: “It’s all right, Roland,” he said; “we understand.”
But Roland saw quite clearly he was not forgiven, that his behavior had increased the estrangement that had existed between his father and himself ever since, without asking parental advice, he had abandoned the idea of the bank. They did not talk much after dinner, and Mr. Whately went to bed early, leaving Roland and his mother alone. It was easier now that he had gone.
“I feel such a beast,” Roland said. “I don’t know what made me do it. I was worried and tired. I didn’t enjoy myself as much as I had hoped to down at Hogstead.”
“I know, dear, I know. We all feel like that sometimes, but I don’t see why that particular thing should have upset you. After all, it’s a very old joke of father’s; you’ve heard it so often before.”
“I know, mother, I know. I don’t know what it was.”
He could not make clear to her, if she was unable to appreciate through her intuition, his distaste for this harping on his marriage, this inevitable event to which he had to come, the fate that he could in no way avoid.