It was a lovely evening, and they walked through a residential park, the roads of which were private and flanked and overhung with trees. Lovers lurked in the shadows, and their sweet murmuring could be heard. Mrs. Fourmy took her son’s arm:
“You and an old woman like me.”
“Won’t it be lovely when we live in the country, mother?”
“Oh, but there won’t be any music-halls.”
“We won’t need them in the country with the nights. You should have seen them in Scotland. I used to go into the woods, and sometimes up the hills.”
“But with an old, old woman——”
“I won’t let you be really old, mother. And up there I used to feel that I didn’t really want anybody. That’s queer, because I was in love—really, I was.”
He began to tingle and burn at the thought of Cathleen and the absurd end of his hopes, and almost tearfully to realize that he was not yet out of love. That discomfort gave him a sense of gladness in his mother’s company. It was wonderful the sweetness that had come into their life together, the peace of it and the hope.
He said:
“It won’t be long before I can begin to make some money. I’m only waiting for Professor Smallman to come back. His letter was awfully kind. He says there will be no difficulty. I can get first-year pupils, and he can help me to find some journalistic work. Then when I’ve got my degree I’ll get a post, and you won’t have to take any more money from the rich Fourmys.”