He picked up the letter and began to read it as he helped himself to another rasher of bacon. His agitation increased as he read.
“But I don’t understand,” he said impatiently. “What’s all this about Mr. Marston offering you a post in his business?”
“What’s that, dear?” said Mrs. Whately quickly. “Isn’t Roland going into the bank after all?”
“Yes, of course he is going into the bank,” her husband replied hastily. “It’s all settled. Don’t interrupt me, Roland. I can’t understand what you’ve been doing!”
And he flung the back of his hand against his forehead, a favorite gesture when the pressure of the conversation grew intense.
“I don’t know what it’s all about, Roland,” he continued. “I don’t know anything about this man. Who he is, and what he is. And I don’t know why you’ve been arranging all these things behind my back.”
Roland expressed surprise that his father had not welcomed the offer of so promising a post. But Mr. Whately was too flustered to consider the matter in this light. “It may be a better job,” he said, “I don’t know. But the bank has been settled and I can’t think why you should want to alter things. At any rate, I can’t stop to discuss it now,” and a minute later the front door had banged behind a querulous, irritable little man, who considered no one had any right to disturb—especially at the breakfast table—the placid course of his existence. As he left the room he flung the letter upon the table, and Mrs. Whately snatched it up eagerly. Roland watched carefully the expression of her face as she read it. At first he noted there only a relieved happiness, but as she folded the letter and handed it back he saw that she was sad.
“Of course it’s splendid, Roland,” she said. “I’m delighted, but.... Oh, well, I do think you might have told us something about it before.”
“I wanted to, mother, but one doesn’t like to shout till one’s out of the wood.”
“With friends, no, but with one’s parents—surely you might have confided in us.”