There was no such implied disapproval in April’s reception of the news. He had not seen her since the afternoon when he had kissed her, and he had wondered in what spirit she would receive him. Would there be awkward stammered explanations? Would she be coy and protest “that she had been silly, that she had not meant it, that it must never happen again?” He had little previous experience to guide him and he was still debating the point when he arrived at No. 73 Hammerton Rise.
What April Curtis did was to open the door for him, close it quickly behind him as soon as he was in the porch, take him happily by both hands and hold her face up to be kissed. There was not the least embarrassment in her action.
“Well?” she said, on a note of interrogation.
For answer he put his hand into his pocket, drew out Mr. Marston’s letter and gave it to her.
April pulled it out of the envelope, hurriedly unfolded it, and ran an engrossed eye over its contents.
“Oh, but how splendid, Roland; now it’s all right. Now there’s no need to worry about anything. Come at once and tell mother. Mother, mother!” she shouted, and catching Roland by the hand dragged him after her towards the drawing-room.
Mrs. Curtis had, through the laborious passage of fifty-two uneventful years, so trained her face to assume on all occasions an expression of pleasant sentimental interest in the affairs of others that by now her features could not be arranged to accommodate any other emotion. She appeared therefore unastonished when her name was called loudly in the hall, when the drawing-room door was flung open and a flushed, excited April stood in the doorway grasping by the hand an equally flushed but embarrassed Roland. Mrs. Curtis laid her knitting in her lap; a kindly smile spread over her glazed countenance.
“Well, my dear, and what’s all this about?” she said.
“Oh, it’s so exciting, mother. Roland’s not going into a bank after all.”
“No, dear?”