"Hush, dear," she said. "Roland's quite right. He's never been officially engaged to April."
Roland shivered at the venom that was revealed by the stressing of the word "officially."
"And how long," she went on, "have you been in love with Miss Marston?"
"Oh, I don't know, mother; I can't tell. Please let me alone." And there was genuine misery behind the words. "One doesn't know about a thing like this."
But Mrs Whately would not spare him. She shook her head impatiently.
"Don't be absurd, Roland; you're behaving like a child. Of course one knows these things. You've known Miss Marston for four or five years now. You couldn't suddenly find yourself in love with her."
"I suppose not, mother, but——"
"There's no 'but.' You must have been thinking of her for a long time. On Friday night—Saturday morning, I mean—you must have gone down there with the full intention of proposing to her; didn't you?"
Roland did not answer her. He rose from his seat and walked across to the window.
"It's no good," he said, and his back was turned to them. "It's no good. I can't make you understand. You won't believe what I say. I seem an awful beast to you, I know, but—oh, well, things went that way."