And even when it was all over, and he was in his bedroom standing before the looking-glass to arrange his tie, he could not believe that it had really happened. It was impossible that grown-up people should be so foolish. He could understand that Mrs Curtis should be annoyed at his attentions to her daughter. He had been prepared for that. If she had said, "Roland, you're both of you too old for that. It was well enough when you were both children, but it won't do now; April is growing up," he could have appreciated her point of view. Perhaps they were too old for the love-making of childhood. But that she should take up the attitude that they were too young for the serious matrimonial entanglements of man and womanhood! It was beyond the expectation of any sane intelligence.
In a way he could not help feeling annoyed with April. If she had not told her mother nothing would have happened.
"Oh, but how silly," she said, when he told her about it next day. "I do wish I had been there. It must have been awfully funny!"
Roland had not considered it in that light and hastened to tell her so.
"I felt a most appalling fool. It was beastly. I can't think why you told your mother anything about it."
She looked up quickly, surprised by the note of impatience in his voice.
"But, Roland, dear, what else could I do? She asked me and I couldn't tell a lie. Could I?"
"I don't know," said Roland. And he began to walk backwards and forwards, up and down the room. "I suppose you couldn't help it, but.... Oh, well, what did you say to her?"
"Nothing much. She asked me.... Oh, but, Roland, do sit down," she pleaded, "I can't talk when you're walking up and down the room."
"All right," said Roland, sitting down. "Go on."