inherit those impulses from his mother, that mixture of passion and shrewd, worldwise contriving?
The second husband had entered his name in the visitors' book.
"Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sampits—London."
Some time after tea Sorrell strolled across to the garage and looked at the silver-coloured car with the red wheels. It was a Heartwell, one of the de luxe machines, and most sumptuously fitted. Ponds,—the garage man, came and stood at Sorrell's elbow.
"Some 'bus?"
Sorrell nodded a meditative head.
"How much would that cost?"
"Round about twelve hundred. Don't she glisten?"
It was evident that Dora had not mismanaged the business side of her second romance. She had obtained material self-expression, and it had been the lack of it that had caused the inevitable rift in her first marriage. She was not a bad woman, only a highly sexed one, and Sorrell had never satisfied her sex and its various desires; he had realized that there had been much that had seemed lovable in Dora. For the first four years they had been very happy together.
Yet her second husband was obviously a hard liver; a full-fleshed, damn—your-eyes sort of man. Generous, no doubt, ostentatiously generous. They suited each other.
It occurred to Sorrell to wonder whether they had any children?
Also, did the mother ever think of the boy?
He hoped not.
Sorrell saw nothing more of the pair until half an hour before dinner. He was putting coal on the lounge fire when he heard a woman's voice behind him.
"Can you sell me some stamps!"
He turned quickly.
"Certainly, madam."
She was in evening dress, a black and gold affair, and her fine throat and shoulders showed soft and white. The big lounge was nearly empty. Her sang-froid was perfect. She watched Sorrell take out his pocket-book. No one was very near to them. She threw one sweeping and easy glance around her.
