The letter took René back pleasantly in memory, when he was suddenly startled to find himself meeting George on his own ground, with complacent acceptance of "having a good time," as the one desirable object which could redeem the ever-present evil. And then he was compelled, from that footing, to see his own revolt as an unaccountable aberration, an eccentricity, an escapade unfortunately disastrous in its consequences. He did not like that, nor did he relish being coupled in George's mind with his father, who was first indolent, then a vagabond, then irresponsible. His confidence was shaken, and he was made conscious of discrepancy and narrowly aware of having missed something of that which he set out to seek. Experience had taught him that it was no use taking any unhappiness to Ann. She would merely assume that he was unwell and probably dose him with physic from the herbalist's round the corner. Again, he saw that George, like Ann, had a gusto in his way of living which he himself lacked, and now only enjoyed vicariously. That could no longer fret his nerves as in the old days it had done; he was fortified by the memory of his act of revolt and the months of entire independence he had enjoyed since his coming to London. He looked up at Ann from his letter. "Bad news?" she said. "I don't know whether it's good or bad. My father has cleared out again." "It's made you sorry. You always look like that when you think of your home. Sometimes I fancy you really wish you had never come away." "That's not true. I'm perfectly content. I'm learning not to blame anybody. That isn't easy." "If you're not sorry, I don't see why you want to think about it." "You can't forget people so completely as all that." "Your dad seems to be able to." "I'm not my father." "No. But sometimes I wish you'd take a leaf out of his book. From what you tell me he does seem able to enjoy himself." "Don't I?" "Oh, you're better than you used to be, but you do frighten me sometimes." "When?" "Oh, when you look at me and don't see me, and when I go on talking and you don't hear a word I'm saying. Sometimes I think it's only because you had that queer time when you first came to London, and then I think you can't be any different. The world does seem upside down, and it seems to me it might be better if we went right away and made a new start somewheres." It comforted René to find that she, too, had her qualms, and that there was some stir behind her constant and equable good humor. He said: "Oh, no. I think we shall be all right. Only we mustn't make the mistake of thinking that love makes life easier."