When Roland returned home that night his mother made no reference to the scene at the breakfast table. They spoke at dinner of indifferent things, politics and personalities; but there was a brooding atmosphere of disquiet. Not until nearly bedtime did Roland announce his intention of going down to Hogstead. His mother’s reply expressed neither reproach nor disappointment.
“Yes, dear,” she said; “well, I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.”
And just because her voice was even and unchallenging, Roland felt that he had to give some explanation.
“You see, mother, Mr. Marston is, after all, my boss, and these visits—well, they’re rather a royal command. They’d be a bit annoyed if I didn’t go.”
“Of course, dear, of course. We only want you to do what you think best.”
But he knew that she was disappointed. She was right, too. He supposed he ought really to have stayed at home and gone for a walk with April. He felt guilty in his attitude towards April, guilty and, in a way, resentful, resentful against these repeated demands on his time and energy, against this assumption of an unflagging passion, an eternal intoxication. And yet he did feel guilty. Was he treating her as a boy ought to treat his girl? How rarely, for example, had he ever taken her anywhere. Ah, well, that at least he could remedy.
Next day, during his lunch hour, he went round to the box office of the Adelphi and bought three stalls for Thursday night. He returned home with the happy air of one that carries a delightful surprise in his pocket.
“Mother,” he said, “what are you doing on Thursday night?”
“Nothing, dear, as far as I know.”
“Well, would you like to come out somewhere with me?”