But Mr. Whately was not finding it easy to procure a post for his son. Roland, after all, possessed no special qualifications. He had been in the Sixth Form of a public school, but he had not been a particularly brilliant member of it. He had passed no standard examinations. He was too young for any important competitive work and Mr. Whately had very few influential friends. Roland began to see before him the prospect of long days spent in a bank—a dismal prospect. “What will it lead to, father?” he used to ask, and Mr. Whately had not been able to hold out very much encouragement.
“Well, I suppose in time if you work well you would become a manager. If you do anything really brilliant you might be given some post of central organization.”
“But it is not very likely, is it, father?” said Roland.
“Not very likely; no.”
The years seemed mapped out before him and he found it difficult to maintain his pose of complacent satisfaction, so that one evening, when he felt more than ordinarily depressed, and when the need of sympathy became irresistible, he found himself telling April the story of his trouble.
She listened to him quietly, sitting huddled up in the window-seat, her knees drawn up towards her, her hands clasped beneath them. She said nothing for a while after he had finished.
“Well,” he said at last, “that’s the story. You know all about it now.”
She looked up at him. There was in her eyes neither annoyance nor repulsion nor contempt, but only interest and sympathy.
“Why did you do it, Roland?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. And because this happened to be the real reason, and because he felt it to be inadequate, he searched his memory for some more plausible account.