wall built about the pleasance of a man's independence.
But on the night before he left for Winstonbury he told his son that he had met Molly at the Rolands.
"So—she is in town."
"And I have been to tea with her. I have seen the room where she works."
Kit had the air of wishing to ask his father all sorts of questions, but was baulked by his own passionate obstinacy.
"She once told me my infatuation would not last a year.—I should like to disprove that. But—then—you know, one is always wondering."
"Whether some other fellow?"
"Yes, just that."
Sorrell smiled at his son's broad and bothered back.
"That young woman has her career. If you realized her keenness,—dear lad."
"Yes,—that is the whole trouble."
"You are jealous of it."
"I suppose I am."
"Because she refuses to jump over the precipice?"
Kit brooded.
"Pater—if she dared the precipice—I feel that there is nothing that I would not give up to her. Yes, all sorts of things. I'm not a fool. I understand—I think I understand—better than she realizes. But I can't help the way I feel about it."
Sorrell's eyes were intent, interested.
"Your feeling is."
"There ought to be complete surrender. Not this bargaining, this hanging back. Life takes its leap. If she would take it with me she would find that she had taken it with a comrade, not a little petty domestic bore."
