“Oh, I suppose so. It all sounds rather rot to me, you know,” she said ungraciously. “It seems so silly to pay another woman to take care of him, when his own mother has nothing else on earth to do. I could teach him myself, really.”
“I doubt your finding it satisfactory. Not that I should venture to question your attainments for a moment, but teaching is an art which requires peculiar qualifications, I believe.”
“I don’t know any Latin or Greek, if that’s what you mean, but I went to a decent school in North London up to the time I was sixteen, and some of the things I learnt there have stuck. Besides, Life teaches one.”
Ford smiled again. “How true! ‘Life teaches one.’ It has been said before, I believe, but, of course, it’s none the less true on that account.”
Rose flushed scarlet and looked straight at him. “You can sneer if you want to. I don’t suppose you’ve learnt much from Life yourself. You’ve sat here comfortably and eaten your meals and strolled about round your father’s property, and all the time Jim was sweating on the plantation, and drinking worse every day, and me not knowing which way to turn for money to pay the monthly books.”
Her voice had risen to virago pitch.
“There’s no need to raise your voice,” said Ford. His colour came and went in patches, and his breathing was uneven.
“I might remind you that I went through the South African War, and was severely wounded at Spion Kop. I might also point out to you that a man of my age is likely to have had a number of experiences that would scarcely come within the range of your understanding. But on the other hand, I have no taste for scenes. Indeed, for your own sake, I strongly advise you to bear in mind that at Squires people don’t make scenes. It isn’t done, my dear Rose, it really isn’t done.”
He picked up a newspaper and opened it leisurely.
Rose understood that the conversation was over, and that the onus of a retreat had, skilfully enough, been relegated to her.