“Don’t you remember, about a fortnight ago, the Middlesex and Yorkshire match? Middlesex had over two hundred to get and only three hours to get them in. They’re a fine side this year.”
And within two minutes they were discussing cricket as they had discussed it so often before. At first they talked to cover their embarrassment, but soon they had become really interested in the subject.
“And what chance do you think you have of getting in the XI.? Surely they ought to give you a trial soon.”
“Oh, I don’t know, father; I’m not much class, and there are several old colors. I ought to get my seconds all right, and next season....”
He stopped, realizing suddenly that he did not as yet know whether there would be any next season for him, and quickly changed the conversation, telling his father of a splendid rag that the Lower Fourth had organized for the last Saturday of the term.
Sooner or later the all-important question had to be tackled, but by the time lunch had finished, son and father had established their old intimacy of quiet conversation, and they were ready to face and, if need be, to dismiss the violent intrusion of the trouble. They walked up and down the hotel grounds, Mr. Whately wondering at what exact point he should dab in his carefully constructed argument. Then there came a pause, into which his voice broke suddenly:
“You know, Roland, about this business....”
“Yes, father.”
“Well, I mean, going out with a girl in the town. Do you think it’s....” He paused. After all, he did not know what to say.
“I know, father. I know.” And looking at each other they realized that it would be impossible for them to discuss it. Their relationship was at stake. It had no technique to deal with the situation. And Roland asked, as his mother had asked, “What’s going to happen, father?”