Pentreath's face had a pinched look.
"I can't help it. It—is—serious. Cambridge was different,—rather like an old house in an old garden. You weren't provoked there."
Kit nodded a sagacious young head.
"Suggestion, Maurice."
"That's it. Everything in London pushes you over the edge, the colour, the women, the shops, the lights,—even the food and the drink. I'm working ten hours a day, and living on fruit and brown bread and water."
Most young men would have laughed, but Christopher did not laugh at Pentreath's fear of that which was in him. He had seen the Pentreath home and touched the Pentreath tradition, and he knew that his friend was passionately sincere. Maurice had ideals; he wanted to think of all women as he thought of his sisters, pale, sweet, Burne-Jonesian, and he was terrified when he saw the Rossetti woman.
"One ought not to feel tempted, Sorrell. When I think of my people"
"Why don't you get engaged? One can't help these things, you know. Everybody feels like it. I have lots of talk with my pater."
He found Pentreath's eyes looking at him with astonishment.
"You have talked to your father?"
"Yes."
"About all this?"
"We understand each other."
"My dear chap—I couldn't. In our family—some things are not mentioned."
Kit left Pentreath thinking that he had not been affected by his friend's quivering confusion, but he was to find that in some subtle way his friend's problem was to become his own. Pentreath had spoken of the lights and the beauty and the shadows, and the eyes, and the dim faces, and the play of the colours. Seduction. The natural desire of the young male. The flick of a skirt, a face seen suddenly at a street corner, those shapely ankles with the soft curves of the muscles above them, the shadow of a fur about a white throat, little half moons of dark hair showing under a hat! Kit began to find that he had to walk harder and faster and that he had to resist a desire to loiter and to look.
