"Nothing of the kind. It's a man's duty to be well-groomed." She sighed--it had been a tiring day, and she hated dinner-parties. "I often wish you'd stayed on in the army."
"Why?"
"I think you were happier; and the army, in peace-time, is so healthy."
"You do worry about me, don't you?"
"Of course. That's what mothers are for."
The remark, coming from her, sounded curiously pathetic. For the moment, Ronnie forgot his anticipations. He put a shy hand on his mother's arm.
"Cheer up, mater," he said, seeing her, once again, as a lonely old woman--the intellect, the public fame of her, merest surface-stuff.
By now, they were through Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens. She removed her arm; made her usual acrid comment on the Albert Memorial; and the pair of them subsided into contemplation.
Contemplating, Ronald Cavendish realized for the first time exactly how far he had already drifted toward violation of his mother's code. He imagined himself saying to Julia, "Mater, I'm in love with Aliette Brunton."
But he could not imagine Julia's reply. The old fear of her came back, chilling him.