“Well, here he is at last,” said Aunt Laura. “We’ve been talking about you, Edwin.”
“Well, what is it?” he said, and his tone implied that he was certain that some dark scheme had been launched against his peace of mind. Uncle Albert puffed uncomfortably at his pipe and nicotine or saliva made a gurgling noise in it. Mr. Ingleby sighed. Aunt Laura, tumbling to the hostility of the new atmosphere, hastened to propitiate.
“I expect you’re hungry, Edwin,” she said. . . .
“No. . . . I’m not hungry, thanks. What is it?”
“You needn’t be cross, Edwin. . . . We’ve decided. . . .” So it was all arranged. . . . “We’ve decided that your father must go away for a rest . . . a little holiday. . . .”
“Yes. . . . And that means, of course, that we shall have to shut up the house until he returns, and of course that will be quite easy, because it’s time you were getting back to St. Luke’s. We thought you had better go on Monday.”
“Yes. . . . Monday. It is fortunate that your uncle has to go into North Bromwich on business that day. . .”
“Yes. . . . Yes. . . Business,” put in Uncle Albert, as though he were anxious to explain that his visit to that sink of iniquity was in no way connected with pleasure.
Edwin burned with sudden and quite unreasonable indignation.
“Yes. . . . Of course I agreed. Your aunt is quite right. I am overtired. It was a terrible strain. And the doctor suggested that my native air. . . .”
“Oh . . . I don’t mean that,” said Edwin. “I mean about St. Luke’s. . . I can’t go back now . . . of course I can’t . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous and childish, Edwin,” said Aunt Laura severely. “You don’t imagine just because”—with a hushed and melancholy inflection—“this . . . has happened, you’re never going to school again?”
“No. . . . I don’t mean that. Of course I don’t. Only . . . only the term is nearly over. In another fortnight all the chaps will be going away for the hols. It isn’t worth it. I should feel . . .”
“We weren’t considering your feelings so much as your good,” said Aunt Laura complacently.
“Father . . . father . . . you can’t mean it. You see. . . . I don’t know . . . it would all be so strange. So awfully difficult. I should have lost touch with all the work the form was doing. I shouldn’t be able to pick it up. It’s rotten . . . rotten . . .”