"That you, Sorrell? Yes. Come round to my place, will you, if you can spare an hour? No. 11, St. Mary's Street. Coming? Good."
That was all.
Yet, when seated in one of Simon Orange's shabby armchairs in a room that suggested that each article of furniture had been acquired separately at various second-hand shops, it came upon Christopher Sorrell that this Quasimodo of a man liked him, and with a liking that was eager and inexplicable. He was aware of a bright and awkward shyness in the other man's eyes. Orange brought out a box of cigars, and was gruff yet apologetic in offering them to Sorrell.
"Try one. Not bad."
"Thanks very much, sir."
Orange placed the box very carefully upon the table, selected a cigar, and stripped off the band.
"No need to 'sir' me."
He searched the mantelpiece for matches.
"Got a light? Fact is—it has occurred to me that you might be willing to give me a hand sometimes. I am getting a good deal to do, consultant work, and a certain amount of outside surgery. If you could take over the out-patient work for me—now and again. Care to?"
He did not look at Christopher, but appeared busy with the lighting of his cigar, and yet Kit had the impression that Orange was asking a favour instead of conferring one. This shabby room somehow suggested loneliness, the uncouth and rather pathetic loneliness of a man who had no friends. And Orange was trying to be friendly, like a manape who had been made to suffer many indignities, and behind whose scornful ferocity shone two lonely, ape-like eyes.
"You must know what you are offering me, Mr. Orange."
"Know? What?"
"The chance to use my hands.—I have felt"
The ape-like eyes were on him for a moment, questioning, human, eagerly intelligent.
"Starving?"
"Yes."
"I know what starving means. Several varieties of starvation, Sorrell. Soul and body. You'll take it on?"
"Only too gladly,—if you think"
