Mr. Christopher Sorrell was writing letters on the morning after the return to Welbeck Street when the door bell rang, and the woman in black came to announce Mr. Thomas Roland.
"O, show him in."
Kit swung round in his chair. He had had a busy two hours picking up the threads of his work from Simon Orange who had been carrying on for him during the holiday, and to Tom Roland he showed a brown and happy face. Kit was a more expressive and a more sociable soul than his father; he met—even casual people—with a pleasant smile, perhaps because he had not had to scuffle with them. But Roland was not a casual person.
"Hallo, sir. How is everybody?"
Roland's smile puzzled Kit. It was affectionate yet enigmatic, coming from behind a cloud.
"My family has started an orchestra in the nursery. In self-defence I had to join it. Had a good time? I can see you have."
"Splendid."
And Kit waited. He was asking himself why Roland had come to see him at this hour, and with a smile that was like a kind and warning touch of the hand. Not for personal or professional reasons—surely? Roland had the face of a brown, whole-meal loaf.
"Cherry and I have been down at Winstonbury."
The manner of his saying it was to Kit like the opening words of a story. Once upon a time
"How did you find things? I had two or three cheery letters from the pater. We thought of going down next Sunday."
Roland looked at the floor.
"Your father thinks that he has cancer."
Kit travelled to Winstonbury that afternoon, and his wife went with him. They had a first-class compartment to themselves, and Kit sat and stared out of the window. Molly, who lived in two worlds, that of her creative spirit, and that of her senses, found herself in an attitude of speculation. Kit had come to her with a shocked face. He had said very little. "I want you to come with me. Will
