to know exactly what he had got, and Sorrell puzzled him not a little. Obviously, Sorrell was a gentleman, but queer, reserved, a fellow who lived at hotels, and who lacked a domestic centre of gravity.
"I suppose you get a good deal of hunting at Winstonury?"
"O, not bad country. I'm not allowed to ride now. The war,—you know."
"Ah,—the war!"
That was a favourite trick of Mr. Lowndes, the repeating of the last three words or so of the other person's sentence.
Mr. Phelps, the games master, was a much more easy person. A little, wiry man with very thin legs, he looked like a boy. He was not very clever, but full of infinite good nature,—and he made most comic jokes. Mr. Lowndes never made jokes. He thought Phelps a good fellow, but rather a tame monkey.
Christopher and Mr. Phelps were excellent friends, for Mr. Phelps had discovered that Christopher could box, and fight even better than he could box.
"Your kid's a great little man, Mr. Sorrell. He's in my 'house'—you know. A fatherly sort of kid."
Sorrell liked Phelps, and not only because Phelps liked his boy. He was tempted to tell Phelps his secret,—and he did tell him, and the games master thought the better of him for it. He had been in the war.
"Well,—I think you are doing a fine thing,—old chap. But—one word; I shouldn't let Lowndes know"
"I think I know what you mean."
"He's the most filthy snob. Only took me on because was a rugger 'blue,' and my uncle's a baronet. You talk to him about me,—I bet you he'll drag in the baronet."
Christopher had one particular friend, a boy named Summervell, a sensitive and rather gentle creature, with long dark eyelashes and stag's eyes. Summervell was no good at games, though he had to play them; his passion was music. Christopher would bring Summervell with him to the Salisbury to sit at the table in the window and dine with them. It was obvious to the father that Christopher felt protective towards this fragile and sensitive boy, the only son of a widow who had to live on an inadequate pension.
