“Really, dear,” his mother went on, “I couldn’t understand it. You haven’t had any row with April, have you?”
“Oh, no; nothing like that, nothing.”
“Then really, dear——”
“I know, mother, I know.”
It was no good trying to explain to her. Could anyone ever communicate their grief, or their happiness for that matter, to another? Was it not the fate of every human soul to be shut away from sympathy behind the wall he himself throws up for his defense?
“And, dear, while we’re on the question,” his mother was saying, “both father and I have been thinking that—well, dear, you’ve been spending rather a lot of money lately, and we thought that, though you have such a certain post, you really ought to take the opportunity of putting by a little money for setting up your house later on. Don’t you think so, dear?”
“I suppose so, mother.”
“You see you’ve got practically no expenses now. I know you pay us something every week, and it’s very good of you to, but you could quite easily save fifty pounds a year.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And don’t you think you ought to?”