sofa, yawning, and with the naturalness of a fine animal.
"What damned fools!"
She looked at him, and picked up a cigarette from the table.
"I want a match."
He produced a box, and striking a match, held it for her to light her cigarette. She blew smoke. Her eyes lifted suddenly, and he saw the big black pupils and the vivid blue of each iris.
"You looked fagged."
"It's the end of the day."
"You ought to get off more. You work too hard."
Sorrell's eye dropped.
"If I could get out for an hour—after tea. There's my boy; I don't see much of him"
Instantly he was aware of the fact that he had offended her.
"O—your boy! What's he doing?"
"Going to school."
"The Council school?"
"Well, it's that—or"
"A summons. All right,—clear out for an hour each day. Have you locked up?"
"Yes, madam."
He had a glimpse of her profile as he passed the door on his way to the stairs. She was smoking and looking at and through the wall opposite her. The corner of her mouth was drawn down and she was frowning.
Sorrell had particular moments in the day when life was worth living. One of the moments was when he got to his attic at night, and counted up the day's tips and entered the amount in a little black note-book; the other moment of happiness came to him with a daily glimpse of the clean, frank face of his boy.
Kit would come to the arched entry, and Sorrell would meet him there, and Kit would see his father in the old, familiar blue serge suit grown more shiny and less neatly creased about the trousers. There were times when Sorrell wore an apron, but he contrived to appear before Christopher
