As he sat on his bed that night he remembered how, five years ago, he had returned to his study after that tempestuous interview with the Chief and had reflected on the impossibility of one mortal making clear his meaning to another. Life went in a circle; here was the same situation in a different setting. Everything was repetition. Had not the Eastern critic laid it down that in the whole range of literature there could be discovered only seven different stories? He remembered the Chief telling him that; it had stuck in his mind: music had evolved from seven notes, painting from three colors, literature from twenty-four letters, the chronicle of mankind from seven stories. Variety, new clothes, new accents, but at heart the same story, the same song.
One problem, however, that he had not previously considered, had become clear for him during that discussion. How was April to be told? He had imagined that he had only to tell his parents for the matter to be settled. They would do the rest. He had never thought that the responsibility of breaking the news to April would rest with him. And he could not do it; it was no good pretending that he could. He could no more tell April himself than he could murder a man in cold blood. He knew also that if he once saw her he would be unable to carry through the part. She would open the door for him and as soon as they were alone in the hall she would throw her arms about his neck and kiss him, and how should he then find words to tell her? His old love for her would return to him; there would be further complications. Perhaps he might write a letter to her, but he had only to take up pen and paper to realize that this was impossible. He could not express himself in writing; the sentences that stared at him from the paper were cold and stilted; they would wound her cruelly. He was accustomed in times of perplexity to turn for advice to Gerald. But this was hardly an occasion when that was possible. Gerald was, after all, Muriel’s brother. There were limits.
The next day brought Roland no nearer to a solution of his immediate problem. Indeed he had not thought of one till, on his way home, he boarded the wrong bus, and on handing threepence and saying “Hammerton Town Hall” was informed that the bus he was on would take him only as far as Donnington before turning off to Richmond. The word “Richmond” gave him his idea. Richmond, that was it, of course that was it! Why had he not thought of it before? He would go round to Ralph at once and send him on an embassy to April. So pleased was he with this inspiration that he was actually shaking hands with Ralph before he realized that the battle was not won yet, and that he had before him a very awkward interview.
“Ralph,” he said, “I want a word with you alone. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Shall we go out for a walk then?”
“Right.”
Ralph went into the hall, fidgeting his fingers in the umbrella stand in search of his walking stick, did not find it, and paused there indeterminate.
“Now, where did I put that stick?”
“Oh, don’t bother, please don’t bother; we’re only going for a stroll.”
“Yes, I know, but if I don’t find it now—let me see, perhaps it’s in the kitchen.” And for the next three minutes everyone seemed to be shouting all over the house: “Mother, have you seen my walking stick?” “Emma, have you seen Mr. Ralph’s walking stick?” And by the time that the stick was eventually discovered, in the cupboard in Ralph’s bedroom, Roland’s patience and composure had been shattered.