"Did you know,—pater? I mean"
"I was blind as a bat. Pushed into a job by my people."
"You have never pushed me."
"God forbid. Send you up like a carrier-pigeon, Kit. Let you get your sense of direction. Fly straight and fast"
Kit pressed his father's arm.
"Dear old pater. I'm not much good at saying things,—but you are a brick to me."
"O,—that's all right," said Sorrell, swallowing something in his throat.
During the days that followed he sat on the edge of his suspense, and admired the morale of his son. Kit ate excellent dinners. It was he who behaved like the reassuring parent. He reported on each day's ordeal with tranquil frankness.
"I have done better than I thought I should, pater. If Mr. Porteous had seen the papers, they couldn't have suited me better."
"Many other fellows in?"
"O, quite a lot. I've a chap next me who sniffs all the time. Regular as clockwork."
They spent the evenings on the river, or in wandering about the colleges, and Kit's eyes had ceased to be troubled. It was as though he were getting the feel of the place, measuring the size of all these ancient buildings. He looked at the blazers and scarves in the outfitters' windows, at the books and the pipes and the marmalade pots. He had heard that he would smoke a pipe and eat a great deal of squish. He measured the other fellows whom he saw strolling about. They seemed to him to have become less stupendous,—more human. Would he be a middle or heavyweight? And would he wear one of those light blue blazers?
On the Sunday they went to King's chapel.
"The music gets there," Kit said afterwards to his father.
"Where, my son?"
"O,—somewhere. Where it was meant to. It's like a fellow climbing up."
Sorrell had felt the music to be like the desire of his heart; ascending, spreading, exulting.
