He
could dissect a car and put it together again. He could drive through
the thickest traffic. He could sit silent in company without having his
silence attributed to shyness or imbecility. But--he could not get
engaged to Muriel Coppin. That was reserved for Roland Bleke, the nut,
the dasher, the young man of affairs. It was all very well being able
to tell a spark-plug from a commutator at sight, but when it came to a
contest in an affair of the heart with a man like Roland, Albert was in
his proper place, third at the pole.
Probably, if he could have gone on merely being engaged, Roland would
never have wearied of the experience. But the word marriage began to
creep more and more into the family conversation, and suddenly panic
descended upon Roland Bleke.
All his life he had had a horror of definite appointments. An
invitation to tea a week ahead had been enough to poison life for him.
He was one of those young men whose souls revolt at the thought of
planning out any definite step. He could do things on the spur of the
moment, but plans made him lose his nerve.
By the end of the month his whole being was crying out to him in
agonized tones: "Get me out of this.
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