She turned away. He took a step towards her.
“Mother, please——”
But she only shrugged her shoulders, and when her husband asked what was going to be done about April, she said that she supposed that it was no affair of theirs, and that no doubt Roland would make his own arrangements. She picked up the paper and began to read it. Roland wondered what was going to happen next; the silence oppressed him. He listened to the slow ticking of the clock till he could bear it no longer.
“Oh, please, one of you, won’t you say something?”
They both turned their heads in surprise as though they would survey a curiosity, a tortoise that had been granted miraculously the gift of speech.
“But, my dear Roland, what is there to be said?”
“I don’t know, I——”
“Your mother’s quite right,” said Mr. Whately. “You’re your own master; you’ve arranged to marry the girl you want. What is there to be said?”
And their heads were again turned from him. He stood looking at them, pondering the wisdom of an appeal to their emotions. He half opened his mouth, took a step forward, but paused; what purpose would it serve? One could not appeal to stone; they were hard, unreceptive, hostile; they would turn cold eyes upon his outburst. He would look ridiculous. It would do no good.
“Oh, very well,” he said, and walked out of the room.