“Then we are engaged, father, aren’t we?” said Muriel.
“I didn’t say so.”
“Oh, but you did; didn’t he, Roland?”
Roland was, however, too confused to hold any opinion on the subject.
“Well, if you didn’t actually say so you implied it. At any rate we shall take it that you did.”
“And that, I suppose, settles it?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Marston made a theatrical gesture of despair.
“These children!” he said.
It was a jolly evening. Roland and Muriel were the center of congratulations; their healths were drunk; he was called on for a speech, and he fulfilled his duty amid loud applause. Everyone was so pleased, so eager to share their happiness. Beatrice had turned to him a smile of surprised congratulation. Only Gerald held back from the general enthusiasm. Once across the table his eyes met Roland’s, and there was implied in their glance a question. He was the only one of the party who had heard of April, and never, in all their confidences, had there passed between them one word that might have hinted at a growing love between his sister and his friend; it was this that surprised him. Surely Roland would have told him something about it. Roland was not the sort of fellow who kept things to himself. He always wanted to share his pleasures. Gerald would have indeed expected him to come to him for advice, to say: “Old son, what chance do you think I stand in that direction?”—to entrust him with the delicate mission of sounding Muriel’s inclinations. He was surprised and a little hurt.