“Yes. It’s better so.”
Colin heard this with a chill of disappointment, for among his pleasurable anticipations had been that of seeing Raymond wince and writhe at the recasting of their parts. Raymond would have hourly before his eyes his own rôle played by another, and with what infinitely greater grace. The part of heroine would be filled by its “creator,” but, in this remodelled piece, what sparkle and life she would put into her scenes. Where she had been wooden and impassive, she would be eager and responsive, that icy toleration would melt into a bubbling liquor of joy. Then there would be the part now to be filled by Raymond; would he fill that with Colin’s tact and sweetness? Of minor characters there would be his father and grandmother, and with what convincing sincerity now would they fill their places.... But Raymond’s absence would take all the sting and fire out of the play.
“Oh, father, does he feel like that?” asked Colin. “Did he feel he couldn’t bear to stop? I’m sorry.”
“No, it was I who told him to go,” said Philip. “He behaved outrageously just now with me.”
“But he’s sorry,” said Colin. “He wants to do better. Mayn’t he stop? He’ll be wretched all alone up in London.”
A sudden thought struck him, a touch of genius. “But it concerns Vi most,” he said. “What do you vote, darling?”
“By all means let him stop,” said she. Nothing but Colin’s wish, here clearly indicated, could have any weight with her.
“Then may he, father?” he asked. “That is good of you. Come and tell him, Vi.”
Raymond was in the hall. He had just ordered his car, and was now about to telephone to the housekeeper in town to say he was coming, when Colin and Violet came out of the library. Philip followed them to complete the welcome, and saw Colin go up to his brother.
“Raymond, don’t go,” he said. “We all want you to stop. Vi does, father does, I do.”