"And the geography? You were so nervous about that."
"I didn't do badly."
"And the Latin and the Greek? I want to know all about it."
"You don't, really?"
"Yes, but I do."
"No, you don't," he said impatiently. "You'd much rather hear about Roland and all the things he does at Fernhurst."
There was a moment of difficult silence, then April said quite quietly:
"You are quite right, Ralph; as a matter of fact I should"; and she turned towards Roland, but before she could say anything, Mrs Curtis once more assumed her monopoly of the conversation.
"Yes, Roland, you've told us nothing about that, and how you got your firsts. We were so proud of you too. And you never wrote to tell us. If it hadn't been for your father we should never have known." And for the next half-hour her voice flowed on placidly, while Ralph sat in a frenzy of self-pity and self-contempt, and Roland longed for an opportunity to kick him, and April looked out between the half-drawn curtains towards the narrow line of sky that lay darkly over the long stretch of roofs and chimney-pots, happy that Roland's holidays had begun, regretting wistfully that childhood was finished for them, that they could no longer play their own games in the nursery, that they had become part of the ambitions of their parents.
When at last they rose to go, Ralph lingered for a moment in the doorway; he could not go home till April had forgiven him.