"Fit,—quite. I'm not a fool. I'll mention it at the next board-meeting."
With the cigar between his lips, and with knees slightly bent he stood square to the fire, staring into it with a queer and half-malicious smile on his face.
"Don't sublet any of the work."
"You mean"
"Those other fellows, Messrs. Starkey, and Blane, and Templeman. Do you think I don't know?"
He twisted slightly on his curved thighs and looked fixedly down over his shoulder at Christopher.
"You—know, Sorrell."
Kit did know, and he stared at the fender. He knew what his brother surgical-registrars said of Simon Orange.
"That's it. Fawning young Agags. Think me a pretty fool. I have had to learn to hate,—sometimes. Sneer at and use. No,—that's not my motto. Power's good, Sorrell. Don't forget it."
Christopher felt curiously humbled, for he—in his time had laughed thoughtlessly at Simon Orange.
"Loyalty," he said; "there is one man who has taught me loyalty."
"Pretty rare."
"It was my father."
