"Oh, bother April!"
"But, dear...."
"I know, mother, but it's April this and April that; it's nothing but April."
His mother raised to him a surprised, grieved face, but she made no answer, and Roland, standing beside the table, experienced the sensation of an anxious actor who has finished his speech in the middle of the stage and does not know how to reach the wings.
"You see, mother," he began, but she raised a hand to stop him.
"No, dear, don't explain: I understand."
He cursed himself, as he walked to the bus, for his ill-temper. What a beast he was—first to April, then to his mother; the two people for whom he cared most in the world. What was wrong? Why was he behaving like this? It had not been always so. At school he had had a reputation for good-naturedness—"a social lubricant," someone had called him—and at Hogstead he was still the same, cheerful, good-humoured, willing to do anything for anyone else. He became his old self in the company of Gerald and his father and the light-hearted, irresponsible Muriel. It was only at Hammerton that he was irritable and quick to take offence. His ill-humour fell away from him, however, the moment he reached the office.
"Well, old son," said Gerald, "and did you get a letter from the mater this morning?"
"Yes."
"And you're coming?"