“I’m sure I shouldn’t,” Jim answered with conviction.
She shrugged her shoulders, and presently their conversation turned in other directions.
When at length he rose to go, he startled her by remarking that he would not see her again until his return from his travels; and to her surprised question he replied that he was going down to Oxford next morning, and that on the following day he would set out on his wanderings.
She looked anxiously at him once more. “There isn’t any real quarrel between you and Dolly, is there?” she asked again.
He reassured her. “No, none at all. It’s only that I have a craving for Italy....”
“Well,” she said, “if you live in a thatched house, don’t start letting off Roman candles.”
“What d’you mean?” he laughed.
“I mean,” she replied. “ ... Oh, never mind what I mean. Don’t go the pace, and don’t stay away too long; or there’ll be trouble. Don’t forget that you’ve got a tradition to keep going. Don’t forget your uncle’s tombstone. What does it say?—‘A man who nobly upheld the traditions of his race....’”
“Yes, isn’t it rot?” he answered. “Do you know I came across some of his letters, and I can tell you his respectability was only skin-deep. All his life he lived a lie, and now he lies in his grave, and his epitaph lies above him.”
She took his proffered hand in hers and held it for a moment. “Jim, my boy,” she said, “I’m only a wicked old woman; but I’ve got a great respect for virtue, even when it’s only skin-deep. It’s the people who don’t care what their neighbours say who come to grief.”