"Yes, pater, thanks."
Kit had lowered his suitcase to the grass path. He was looking at the roses, but not as though he saw them, but as though he was looking at something else, something within himself. His mouth and eyes had an extraordinary gentleness, the softened fineness that comes with suffering.
"Pater,—I want to tell you straight away."
"Right, old chap."
Sorrell felt for his pipe.
"I've had—a love affair. It has been going on for quite a long while. We weren't married."
"Yes, old chap."
"She's dead. She was knocked down four days ago by a bus. She—she was awfully good—to me, pater. I—I've been sorry for things,—sorry."
Sorrell was holding a match to the bowl of an empty pipe.
"I—I understand—old chap. These things. Well you know,—when we look back. I'm rather glad you have come down here."
"Thank you, pater. I"
"Your room's all ready. I'll have our meals sent over. I shan't worry you. You see, old boy,—I knew."
"Knew?"
"Well,—something; felt it. In your life, you know. I'm rather. Yes, it must have been good. She didn't. Poor little—girl."
"Don't, pater," said Kit suddenly; "things hurt so damnably, especially—your—your goodness."
He picked up his suitcase and went in.
Before the end of Kit's week Sorrell had been able to paint a very passable portrait of Mary Jewett.
He was grateful to her, grateful for her having met Kit in the wild garden of their common youth, and for having taken him by the hand and shared the fruit with him, the wild fruit which grows as it pleases. She had done Kit no harm; on the contrary she had done him much good; she had taught him things; she had been one of those sacrificial women who give to men more than men give to them.
Kit talked a good deal.
