III
Early on the morrow he received a visit from his new friend. Roderick was in a state of extreme exhilaration, tempered, however, by a certain amount of righteous wrath. He had had a row at home, as he called it, but had remained master of the situation. He had shaken the dust of Mr. Striker's office from his feet.
"I had it out last night with my mother," he said. "I dreaded the scene, for she takes things terribly hard. She doesn't scold nor storm, and she doesn't argue nor insist. She sits with her eyes full of tears that never fall, and looks at me, when I vex her, as if I were a monster of depravity. And the trouble is that I was born to vex her. She doesn't trust me; she never has, and she never will. I don't know what I've done to set her against me, but ever since I can remember I've been looked at with tears. The trouble is," he went on, giving a twist to his moustache, "I've been too great a mollycoddle. I've been sprawling all my days by the maternal fireside, and my dear mother has grown used to bullying me. I've made myself cheap! If I'm not in my bed by eleven o'clock the cook's sent out to explore for me with a lantern. When I think of it I'm quite sick of my meekness. It's rather a hard fate, to live like a tame cat and to pass for a desperado. I should
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