“I see. But I’ve got another year.”
“Can’t you teach someone something? You’ve been learning long enough.”
“I might. I see I must do something. When are you going to be married?”
“Next month. What are you staring at?”
“Was I staring?”
“When you were a kid I used to hit you for staring at me like that, and, by God, I’d like to do it now. Elsie said, she said: ‘Your brother’s got all his feelings just under his skin.’ Why don’t you say something?”
George rose, went to the corner cupboard and took out a bottle of whisky. The gesture, the lift of the shoulder, the cock of the back of the head, reminded René irresistibly of his father. George turned.
“Why can’t you stop staring? I’m going to be married. I’m no different. There’s nothing very startling in that, is there?”
“The whole thing seems to me so——”