"That's one of my points. We don't care. Like the war. Life's got too crowded and confused. You have to make such a great noise in order to be heard,—and I loathe noise. Short of blowing Vesuvius into the middle of Naples! Well,—Ethel blew up the Sensational Press for us, made it ex lode."
"She has done something more than that," said Sorrell, "she has blown up my boy."
"Oh? How? He wants to be a film star?"
"No, he wants to be a doctor."
"And achieve dramatic cures?"
"I think there is more in it than that."
Christopher had taken unto himself an autograph book, which meant that he had taken to hero worship, yet at the back of his mind Kit's most convincing hero was his father. Convincing because his heroism was not too obvious; it had that quality of steadfastness; it was like the seaman's heroism, the practical and un-self-conscious heroism of the man doing his job in foul weather and in fair. Kit had his admirable enthusiasms. That Dicker the Hampshire fast bowler, and Blackett the "heavy-weight" who travelled with a circus, had put their fists to Kit's book, was the ripe joy of the moment. Sorrell had never had his photo in the papers. He did not appear in a roped space wearing a purple and orange dressing-gown, and yet, as Christopher matured his father became to him—not quite a great man—but something more human, a very lovable one. His own life was permeated by his father's patient and indomitable purpose.
But for the moment Kit desired a particular autograph, and when Sorrell was told, he offered his services.
"I dare say I could get it for you."
"But, if you don't mind, pater, I would rather try and get it myself."
"You'll have to be introduced, my son."
"Shall I?"
"I'll ask Mrs. Scott."
Sorrell was one of those men who became a "person," and in after years habitués who pulled up at the Pelican would greet him as "Stephen." It was a familiarity that assured liking and respect. Stephen was a character, a person of importance, a man who never forgot anything and
