George was in the same office, and, as he said, had flung away ambition: too many children to take risks, and after all there was nothing in the small firm now. The one or two connections you depended on might go bust any day. It needed enormous capital to stand the fluctuations of prices. He had got a rise by pretending to go and was quite content. He played bowls in the summer and bridge in the winter. And Elsie? What with the house and the mother she had plenty to do, plenty to do.
As René walked along the passage he felt uncannily certain that he would find his mother sitting by the fireplace knitting. And it was so. She raised her eyes and looked at him with timid anxiety, held out her cheek to be kissed, went on knitting, and said:
"Now sit down and give an account of yourself."
He edited his experiences, and she listened without interest. Most of his talk was of Kilner.
"Artists are very immoral men, aren't they?"
"It depends," he said, "on what you mean by morality."
"There _are_ rules," said she, "and commandments."
"My friend has rules," he replied, "rather good ones. He dislikes doing anything which interferes with his power to paint."
"I don't think we can argue about that, mother."
"No. I suppose you made very little money."
"I suppose you could do with that, with only yourself to keep. Though it seems a pity, considering the amount of time and money spent on your education."
Was it his mother speaking? What had happened to her? Whence had come the dry hardness in her voice? Why were her eyes so dead? They used to steal quick little glances when she spoke. Now she only stared listlessly. A home-coming? This for a home? In the house next door there had been some stirring of life: the night when he had returned home from Scotland: the strange days after his father's restoration.
The windows of the room were shut. René felt stifled. He made some excuse and went away out of the house, and roamed through the familiar streets. There were many houses empty: the gardens, some of which had once been trim, were now unkempt. The whole district was dismal and devitalized. Only the red trams clanging and clanking down the cobbled streets made any stir and gaiety.
He found himself presently in Galt's Park. The little pink brick houses had invaded it. Many of the big houses were pulled down: others were being demolished, and only jagged walls and gaping windows were left. On the site of the Brocks' house stood a little red-brick chapel outside which were announcements in Welsh and English. That gave him a shock. Some of the past life had been brushed away. He disliked the idea of its room being usurped by a chapel, a place of Christian worship. He did not know why he disliked this idea so much, but it was connected vaguely with the image of his mother sitting in that room, knitting and talking in an empty voice, and clinging obstinately to rules of conduct.