And now, although Roland’s moral welfare was a deep responsibility to them, they spoke only of his career and of how they must shape it to fit the new requirements. Mr. Whately thought that he might be able to find a post for him in the bank. But his wife was very much against it.
“Oh, no, dear, that would be terrible. Roland could never stand it; he’s such an open-air person. I can’t bear the idea of his being cooped up at a desk all his days.”
“That’s what my life’s been.”
“I know; but, Roland. Surely we can find something better for him than that.”
“I’ll try. I don’t know. Things like the Civil Service are impossible for him now, and the Army’s no use, and I’ve got no influence in the City.”
“But you must try, really, dear. It’s awful to think of him committed to a bank for the rest of his life just when he was doing so well.”
“All right. I’ll do my best.”
A few minutes later he said that he was tired and would go to bed. At the door he paused, walked back into the room and stood behind his wife. He wanted to say something to show that he appreciated her sympathy, that he was glad she was beside him in this disappointment, this hour of trouble. But he did not know what to say. He stretched out a hand timidly and touched her hair. She turned and looked up at him, and without a word said put her arms slowly about his neck, drew his hand down to her and kissed him. For a full minute he was pressed against her. “Dear,” he murmured, and though he mounted the stairs sadly, he felt strengthened by that embrace of mutual disappointment.
He set off very early next morning, for he would have to go down to the bank and make arrangements for his absence. He had hoped that Roland would have written to them, but the post brought only a circular from a turf accountant.
“Have you decided what you are going to say to him?” his wife asked.