Edward shrugged his shoulders in cold disgust.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs. Fairfield. There was an ominous pause. Her husband rushed towards her.
‘It’s all right, me dear. I’ve got you safe and sound. Sit down and have a bit of a rest.’
The afflicted lady sighed.
‘She’s going to faint,’ cried Mr. Fairfield. ‘Why didn’t you let her have her way, you young devils, you!’
‘Of course she’s going to faint,’ said Edward. ‘That is the last scene of the melodrama.’
Sheila watched the scene with a mixture of indignation and compassion. The indignation was short-lived: it died suddenly at sight of Edward’s complete detachment. He seemed utterly devoid of the filial sentiment that would have made allowances for his mother. For she was, after all, his mother, Sheila reflected. She had faced death to bring him into the world. He was flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone: for him she had spent herself, and he was still the centre of her life. Had Edward shewn anger, Sheila would have been wholeheartedly with him, but this cold disdain, this resolute refusal to be stirred a hair’s breadth either to pity or to wrath seemed to Sheila’s warmer heart almost inhuman, although it extorted from her an unwilling admiration.
‘I think I’d better clear out,’ said Bunny, moving towards the door. ‘Sorry to have been the cause of a disturbance.’
But Mrs. Fairfield’s recovery was as abrupt as her collapse had been. From the arm-chair into which her husband had placed her she urged the young man to stay.
‘Don’t go, Bunny. I’m better now. It was my son upset me, not you. Come and tell me your news?’