Rose smiled frankly at the implied compliment to herself.
“I’m not sure, though, that that isn’t the most sickening thing of all, about Ford. He has got brains. Time and again he could have explained what I really meant about Cecil, for instance, to the old people—and he just didn’t. He could have made them understand things—he’s educated, and I know very well I’m not,” said Rose calmly, “but he never helped me out—not once. The night after you left Squires, them and me had a bit of a flare-up. At least, I was frantic. They were as calm as could be, just thinking what a pity it was I should be so common. I was trying to tell them why I wouldn’t let Ces go to school, but they hadn’t the faintest idea of what I was driving at. They couldn’t understand that a thing which had always been a success in a general way might fail in a particular case. When I tried to explain, they just thought it was because I didn’t know anything about public schools, or because I spoilt Ces, and thought him delicate. Talking to them was like trying to describe a colour to people who’ve been born blind. But not Ford. He understood. He could have made the others see what I meant, even if they hadn’t agreed with me. But he didn’t. Ford hates me.”
“Why should he hate you?”
“I think,” said Rose Aviolet slowly, “that it’s because I’m alive, and Ford isn’t. He can’t get away from traditions. I think he tried to, especially when he went out to South Africa to fight, but he just couldn’t.”
Charlesbury looked keenly at her. “Do you know that you’re something of a psychologist, Mrs. Aviolet?”
“I don’t think I know what a psychologist is, exactly. But that’s what I think about Ford. He just doesn’t fit in. He is a tiny bit different, if you come to think of it—he’s clever, and he likes books, and china, and he reads. And doesn’t he say he’s a Socialist? He breaks away from the Aviolet tradition in those sort of ways, doesn’t he? But what I feel is, that he’s holding on to it with the other hand all the time too. He wants to be alive, but he wants to belong to Squires as well.”
“And the two don’t square. I see,” said Charlesbury reflectively.
“Some people could make them square. You could,” she returned crudely. “But it wants somebody stronger than Ford to do it, and I think he knows it. He’s sort of afraid, isn’t he?”
“That’s, as you say, tradition—holding him back all the time. Perhaps you’re right, and he hasn’t the courage of his emotions.”
“That’s just what I meant,” Rose assented admiringly, “only I couldn’t have described it like that. He hasn’t got the courage of his emotions. And I think, myself, that he’s jealous, downright jealous, because he knows that I have.”