He was astonished at her bitterness. He had thought that all the women were on Buck's side, and he felt cheered.
"Then—you have noticed it?"
"Of course. Why do you do it?"
"Do you think I would ask him? He thinks I'll break. I shan't."
With an effort he picked up the trunk, and getting it on his shoulder, went swaying along the corridor. Mary Marks stood and watched him, and had Sorrell been able to read her mind its fierce goodwill would have surprised him. She knew something of men; she was full of scorn for the fine, breezy fellows, the gentlemen with the "Hallo, my dear" eyes.
"He won't stand it," she thought. "Mr. Roland ought to have the sense to see. That boy of his keeps him going."
Nor was Mrs. Marks the only woman in the place whose sympathies were with Sorrell. It happened one wet Sunday afternoon that Sorrell had spent his half-day at the Vine Court, and Fanny Garland—also free—was one of the party. They had tea together, Sorrell and Kit, Fanny and her mother. Sorrell ate very little; they noticed it; he looked in pain.
Sorrell and Fanny Garland walked back together to the Pelican. It was raining, and Fanny had an umbrella; she offered half to Sorrell, frankly, as a comrade; her cheerfulness was a Straightforward virtue, and though Sorrell refused the umbrella she was not offended. Most men would have shared it so readily, thinking it to be an invitation towards other intimacies. Buck, for instance.
One of them, probably it was Sorrell, happened to mention the ex-sergeant-major.
"Him! You put up with too much. I know the sort he is."
And then she added—"I know the length of his rope. You wait."
Her meaning was an enigma to Sorrell.
"I don't quite take you."
"No? That fellow will hang himself. You wait. If he gets caught—I don't think Mr. Roland's the sort of man to mince matters"
Sorrell went to bed wondering how Gecrge Buck could be expected to hang himself. Also, it was in his mind that
