He cursed himself, as he walked to the bus, for his ill-temper. What a beast he was—first to April, then to his mother; the two people for whom he cared most in the world. What was wrong? Why was he behaving like this? It had not been always so. At school he had had a reputation for good-naturedness—“a social lubricant,” someone had called him—and at Hogstead he was still the same, cheerful, good-humored, willing to do anything for anyone else. He became his old self in the company of Gerald and his father and the light-hearted, irresponsible Muriel. It was only at Hammerton that he was irritable and quick to take offense. His ill-humor fell away from him, however, the moment that he reached the office.
“Well, old son,” said Gerald, “and did you get a letter from the mater this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re coming?”
“Well, I don’t know yet.”
“Oh, but of course you are. They’ll all be fearfully annoyed if you don’t, especially Muriel——”
“Muriel! Why, what did she say?”
“Nothing particular as far as I remember, but she seemed frightfully keen. She says you’re the only one of my friends she’s any use for. She finds them too stuck up—middle-aged at twenty she calls them. So you’ll have to come.”
“I suppose I shall.”
“Of course you will. Sit down and write a note this minute, so that there’s no chance of your thinking better.”