“It’s awfully interesting,” she said. “They are so different from the sort of people that we see—all jammed together in these funny little houses—all furnished just the same.”
“Yes, and all doing the same things,” said Roland—“going to the office at the same time, coming back at the same time, and if it hadn’t been for Gerald that would have been my life. That’s what I should have been. I should have done exactly the same things every day of my life except for one fortnight in the year. And it would have been worse for me than for most of them, because I’ve been at a decent school, because I’d seen that life needn’t be like that. These people don’t believe it can be different.” He spoke with a savage sincerity that surprised Muriel. She had never known him so violent.
“Roland! Roland!” she expostulated. “I’ve never heard you so fierce about anything before. Your proposal to me was the tamest thing in the world compared with that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I should hope so. I believe you hate Hammerton more than you love me.”
So the autumn passed, quickly and happily. And by Christmas time they had begun to speak of an April wedding. There was no reason for delay. Roland was now making over seven hundred pounds a year, and the Marstons were too certain of their son-in-law to demand a long engagement. Yet it was on the very evening when the date was fixed that Roland and Muriel had their first brief quarrel. Roland had been tired by the long discussion, and Muriel’s keen vitality had exasperated him. She was talking so eagerly of her trousseau, her bridesmaids, the locality of her honeymoon. She seemed to him to be sharing their love, his and hers, with all those other people who had no part in it. He was envious, feeling that their love was no longer theirs. He was still angry when they stood together on the landing to say good-night to each other.
“I don’t believe you care for me at all,” he said, “that you regard our marriage as anything more than a pantomime, a glorified garden party!”
A look of hurt amazement crossed her face.
“But, Roland!”
“Oh, you know what I mean, Muriel, you—well, all these others!” He paused, unable to express himself, then caught her quickly, roughly into his arms, and kissed her hungrily. “I don’t care,” he said, “you’ll be mine soon, mine!”