"Through."
Sorrell read that one word some two hours later, and he sent the under-porter on a bicycle to Winstonbury with an answering message.
"Splendid. Congratulations.—Pater."
Christopher joined him next day at the Pelican, and Mr. Porteous came to dinner. Two telegrams had been waiting for Kit; one had come from Tom Roland who had had the news wired to him by Sorrell; the other had been sent by Christopher's mother.
Kit had showed it to his father.
"How did she know!"
"Arranged with someone to have the lists watched, I suppose."
"Rather decent of her, pater, after the way I."
Kit had found no answering approval in his father's eyes, and he had understood. Women,—yes, women, even his own mother! Wanting their fingers in the pie.
He had torn up his mother's telegram.
But there was that invitation of hers still hanging unanswered in the air, for he had written to her to say that he had decided to make no plans until the result of the examination was known. He had promised to write later.
Well,—what was he going to do about it?
Tucked under his porridge plate Kit discovered an envelope addressed to him in his father's handwriting, and on opening it he found that it contained a ten-pound note.
"I say,—pater!"
Sorrell had been pretending to read the morning paper, and he glanced up at his son's serious face.
"Well.—old man?"
"You: know—you oughtn't—to be so jolly good to me."
"Why not? Something to celebrate with. You have worked hard."
Kit got up and, going round the table, bent down and kissed his father on the forehead.
