Free Love in Our Time by Norman Collins Page B

did not even look gloomy. To go from the dining-room into the drawing-room was like going from an undertaker’s reception office into his own private parlour; the room in short, had a heart. Moreover, Mr. Biddle was determined to be pleasant.
    â€œOf course you’re different,” he said to Gerald. “I never had any real education.”
    â€œOh, I dunno,” Gerald answered. “I suppose I was lucky.”
    â€œAnd games are another thing. It would have done me a lot of good to have been able to play a round of golf at times. But when I was young I couldn’t afford it and now that I can afford it I’m too old to learn.”
    â€œNever get the time for it, in any case,” Gerald assured him. “Haven’t used my clubs for over twelve months.” He paused. “I’m thinking of getting Alice to join a club when we’ve settled down a bit,” he said.
    It was not true; but there was something oddly reassuring about even saying it; he liked to think of himself as the sort of man who could afford to get his wife to join a golf club.
    They were sitting there talking when there came a knock at the front door. It was only a faint knock, almost as though a child had been playing with the knocker. But it was a knock all right.
    â€œIs that the postman?” Gerald asked.
    â€œToo late,” said Alice. “He always gets here by nine.”
    â€œShall I go and see who it is?” Gerald half-rose from his chair, but Alice intercepted him.
    â€œYou stop here and talk to father,” she said.
    The two men relaxed as she went, and sat with the strained expressions of people who are trying to hear what is happening on the other side of a closed door, and trying also to appear as though they were not doing so. They heard Alice open the door and a man’s voice say something. It was muffled and indistinct, merely a vague masculine remark. Then there was the noise of the front door shutting and they heard Alice say something else. Evidently, the stranger was actually in the house.
    A moment later, the drawing-room door opened and Alice stood there. She wore that excited, startled expression of someone who has big news to break.
    â€œIt’s your father, Gerald,” she said. “He’s just come to London.”
    As she spoke the figure behind her stepped into sight. There was not much room in the narrow Tudor doorway. But Gerald saw enough. He saw the pale, dispirited face, the ineffectual, irregular moustache and the dreadful knitted tie upon the stiff shirt front. Even the greenish gleam on the rubbed black cloth of jacket was visible on the lapels.
    And worst of all, Mr. Sneyd senior, was apologising—apologising for having come so late, apologising for disturbing them, apologising for having come at all, apologising, in fact, for being Gerald’s father. He came forward with his hat held in his left hand flat against his chest and the other hand thrust forward as though in the hope that someone would soon shake it.
    â€œHa—hallo, Dad,” said Gerald.
    He came forward, a great lump in his throat. To his own surprise, he felt suddenly as if he wanted to cry at the sight of him.
    â€œI know I ought to have sent you a telegram or something,” Mr. Sneyd began, “but I was just passing so I thought I’d look in.”
    He smiled weakly as he said it; his excuse about passing down Boleyn Avenue—unless he had first deliberately gone out of his way to find it—made the whole thing appear somehow rather sly and shameful; Gerald wished his father hadn’t said anything about it.
    â€œJolly glad to see you again,” Gerald tried to assure him. “Let me introduce you. My father-in-law, Mr. Biddle. This is Dad.”
    It was precisely this introduction that he hadn’t been looking forward to. He had always kept his family as quiet as possible. There were reasons—private, domestic reasons—why he