Roland was wise enough not to attempt to justify himself. He would only enrage Ralph still further and that was not his game.
“All right,” he said. “Granted all that, granted I’ve done a rotten thing, it’s happened; it can’t be altered now; something’s got to be done. Put yourself in my place. What would you do if you were me?”
“I shouldn’t have got myself in such a place”; his voice was stern and official and condemnatory. In spite of the stress of the situation Roland was hard put to it not to kick him for a prig.
“Even so,” Ralph interrupted, “I can’t see why you shouldn’t go and tell April yourself.”
“Because April herself would rather be told by anyone than me.”
It was his last appeal and he saw that it had succeeded. Ralph repeated the words over to himself.
“April would rather be told---- Oh, but rot! She’d much rather have it out straight.”
“Oh, no, she wouldn’t; you don’t know April as well as I do. She hates scenes; she could discuss it impersonally with you. With me--can’t you see how it would hurt her; she wouldn’t know how to take it, whether to plead, or just accept it--can’t you see?”
He had won, and he knew it, through the appeal to April’s feelings. Ralph would do what he wanted, because he would think that he was performing a service for April.
“I expect you’re right,” he said; “you know her better than I do, but I’m doing it for her, not for you, mind.”
“If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t do it. A man should do his own dirty work. And you know what I think of it.”
“Oh, yes, I know.” He would make no defense. Ralph might be allowed in payment the poor privilege of revenge.
“You shall have a full account of the execution.”
They walked a little farther in silence. They had nothing more to say to each other, and at the corner of a road they parted. It was finished.
Roland walked home, well satisfied at the successful outcome of a delicate situation--the same Roland who had congratulated himself five years earlier on the diplomacy of the Brewster episode.
Ralph went round to see April on the next morning, shortly after eleven o’clock. She had just been out for a long walk by herself and, on her return, had taken up a novel with which to while away the two hours remaining to lunch time. She had left school eighteen months earlier, and time often hung heavily on her. She did little things about the house: she tidied her own room, mended her own clothes, did some occasional cooking, but she had many hours of idleness. She wished sometimes that she had trained for some definite work. Women were no longer regarded as household ornaments. Many careers were open to her. But it had not seemed worth while during the last year at school to specialize in any one subject. What was the good of taking up a career that she would have to abandon so soon? The first year in any profession was uninteresting, and by the time she had reached a position where she would be entrusted with responsibilities her marriage day would be approaching. And so, instead of looking for any settled work, she had decided to stay at home and help her mother as much as possible. It was lonely at times, especially when Roland was away; she was, in consequence, much given to daydreams. Her book, on this September morning, had slipped on to her lap, and her thoughts had refused to concentrate on the printed page, and fixed themselves on the time when she and Roland would be married. He had not been to see her at all the day before. But the memory of his last kiss was very actual to her. He had loved her then. She had had her bad moments, when she had wondered whether, after all, he really cared for her, but she was reassured by such a memory. And soon they would be married. She would make him happy. She would be a good wife.