“Yes, Raymond’s spider scrawl is evident enough,” he said. “I never saw such a handwriting except yours; his and yours I can never tell apart. One wants leisure to decipher you and Raymond.”
Colin simmered with impatience to see his father put both of these letters into his pocket, and simmered even more ebulliently when, having put them on the table at lunch, his father appeared to forget completely about them, and left them there when lunch was over. But Colin could remind him of that, and presently the one from Violet lay open.
His father gave an exclamation of surprise, and then was absorbed in it. It appeared to be short, for presently he had finished, and, still without a word to Colin, opened the letter from Raymond. Here exclamations of impatience at the ugly, illegible handwriting took the place of surprise, and it was ten minutes more before he spoke to Colin. He, meantime, had settled with himself, in case these letters contained what he guessed for certain that they must contain, that since Violet’s previous warning to him was private, he would let the news that his father would presently tell him be a big emotional surprise to him. This would entail dissimulation, but that was no difficulty. Colin knew himself to be most convincing when his brain, not his sincerity, dictated his behaviour.
“Have Violet and Raymond written to you to-day?” asked his father.
Colin yawned. He generally took a siesta after the long morning in the sea and sun, and it was already past his usual hour. There was a pleasant fiction that he retired to write letters.
“No,” he said, getting up. “Well, I’m off, father. Lots of letters....”
“Wait a moment. Violet and Raymond send me news which pleases me very much. They’re engaged to be married.”
Colin stared, then laughed.
“I’d forgotten it was the first of April,” he said. “I thought we were in June.”
“We are,” said his father. “But it’s no joke, Colin. I’m quite serious.”