It was not a particularly jolly evening before Ralph arrived. Afterwards it was a good deal worse.
In the old days, when father and son had paid an evening visit, Roland had run straight up to the nursery and enjoyed himself, but now he had to sit in the drawing-room, which was a very different matter. He did not like Mrs. Curtis; he never had liked her, but she had not troubled him in the days when she had been a mere voice below the banisters. Now he had to sit in the small drawing-room, with its shut windows, and hear her voice cleave through the clammy atmosphere in languid, pathetic cadences; a sentimental voice, and under the sentiment a hard, cold cruelty. Her person was out of keeping with her voice; it should have been plump and comfortable looking; instead it was tall, thin, angular, all over points, like a hatrack in a restaurant: a terrible bedfellow. And she talked, heavens! how she talked. It was usually about her children.
“Dear Arthur, he’s getting on so well at school. Do you know what his headmaster said about him in his report?”
“Oh, but, mother, please,” Arthur would protest.
“No, dear, be quiet; I know Mr. Whately would like to hear. The headmaster said, Mr. Whately....” Then it was her daughter’s turn. “And April, too, Mr. Whately, she’s getting on so well with her drawing lessons. Mr. Hamilton was only saying to me yesterday....”
It was not surprising that Roland was less keen now on going round there. It was little fun for him after all to sit and listen while she talked, to see his father so utterly complacent, with his “Yes, Mrs. Curtis,” and his “Really, Mrs. Curtis,” and to look at poor April huddled in the window seat, so bored, so ashamed, her eyes meeting his with a look that said: “Don’t worry about her, don’t take any notice of what she says. I’m not like that.” Once or twice he tried to talk to her, but it was no use: her mother would interrupt, would bring them back into the circle of her own egotism. In her own drawing-room she would tolerate nothing independent of herself.
“Yes, Roland; what was it you were saying? The Saundersons’ dance? Of course April will be going. They’re very old friends of ours, the Saundersons. Mr. Saunderson thinks such a lot of Arthur, too. You know, Mr. Whately, I met him in the High Street the other afternoon and he said to me, ‘How’s that clever son of yours getting on, Mrs. Curtis?’ ”
“Really, Mrs. Curtis.”
“Yes, really, Mr. Whately.”
It was at this point that Ralph arrived.