“Don’t be absurd, Roland; you’re behaving like a child. Of course one knows these things. You’ve known Miss Marston for four or five years now. You couldn’t suddenly find yourself in love with her.”
“I suppose not, mother, but——”
“There’s no ‘but.’ You must have been thinking of her for a long time. On Friday night—Saturday morning, I mean—you must have gone down there with the full intention of proposing to her; didn’t you?”
Roland did not answer her. He rose from his seat and walked across to the window.
“It’s no good,” he said, and his back was turned to them. “It’s no good. I can’t make you understand. You won’t believe what I say. I seem an awful beast to you, I know, but—oh, well, things went that way.”
And he stood there, looking out of the window through the chink of the blind towards the long, gray stretch of roofs, the bend of the road, the pools of lamplight, till suddenly, like a caress, he felt his mother’s hand upon his shoulder.
“Roland,” she said, and for the first time there was sympathy in her voice, “Roland, please tell me this. You’re not, are you, marrying this girl for her money?”
He turned and looked her full in the eyes.
“No, mother,” he said. “I love Muriel Marston. I love her and I want to marry her.” As he spoke he saw the kind light vanish from her eyes, her hand fell from his shoulder and the voice that answered him was metallic.
“Very well, then, if that’s so, there’s no more to be said. As you’ve arranged all this yourself, you’ll let us know when the marriage will take place.”