"Dear old pater,—I'll help."
"Think of that poor old portmanteau! What its feeling must have been—when it burst open! But I have been burst open to-day, Kit. You have had a look at the inside of me. Yesterday—I was a sort of shabby gentleman. That's finished."
Christopher meditated some profound thought.
"I don't mind—just bread and butter."
"No jam?"
"No."
"Well, somehow—I think it was worth it," said Sorrell, "quite worth it. You and I know where we are."
The sunset was dying behind them, and the dusk and the shadows of the great trees seemed to meet upon the water. The Sorrells left the seat and wandered away together, united by a sudden understanding of each other and by a sympathy that was frank and tender.
"I am always going to tell you things, Kit; no more make-believe."
"And I'll tell you things too, pater," said the boy—"everything."
"No secrets?"
"No secrets."
It was the beginning of the great comradeship between them, and for the first time for many months Sorrell felt a happiness that surprised him. The shock of the day's disappointment had passed. The human relationship suddenly realized between his boy and himself swallowed up the sense of defeat. His courage returned. As they wandered in the dusk of the Close under the darkening trees he felt Kit's nearness, a nearness of spirit as well as of body.
"If I had not had the boy" he thought.
Kit's hand touched his sleeve.
"Look"
They had turned into a stone flagged path that ran at the backs of the old houses on one side of the Market Square. Gravestones and brick tombs showed between them and the houses. A high yew hedge screened many of the lower windows, but Kits eyes were fixed upon a broad, arched window that was visible beyond the hedge. The window was brilliantly lit, and glowed with streaks
