She brought them coffee, and W.G., who had scarcely spoken, but whose knitted brows testified to the pressure of some urgent problem, said:—
“Well, how do you like it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Being on your own.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Edwin.
“I never thought you’d stick it,” W.G. confessed. “I didn’t think you had it in you. You see, in your case there was never the least necessity for it.”
“There was, you know—”
“I could have understood it if you’d had a regular bust-up. I should certainly have stayed at home if the governor hadn’t booted me out. You never had anything of that kind.”
“No . . . not exactly. But the position was the same. I had a sort of . . . of emotional cold-douche. I was awfully sensitive about my mother. My father and I were all wrong. We’d really nothing in common. And it’s turned out all right. That’s the main thing.”
“You’re a quixotic ass, my son. No . . . that’s not the word, but it’s the same sort of thing. It was really damned foolish of you.”