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.