and simple spirituality that was so different from the casual "take it or leave it" air of the rooms of the Angel Hotel that Sorrell felt touched, though why a cottage bedroom should have touched him he was not able to say. Christopher had gone at once to the window and was looking down into the garden.
"There's an apple tree, pater."
"So there is."
Mrs. Garland gave a tweak to one of the white curtains. The apple tree was a Blenheim, and full of pale gold fruit, each with a blush of redness on the side towards the sun.
"My man planted that tree. It's a Blenheim Orange. Well,—young gentleman, you didn't take long to find it."
Christopher turned and looked at her. Mrs. Garland's tone had accused him of a desire to get up that tree, whereas Kit had been struck by the beauty of it, and had been guiltless of elemental greed.
"They are quite safe with me, Mrs. Garland."
"Oh,—are they,—my dear! Well,—I don't mind one or two, so long as you don't break the branches."
"But I mean what I say, Mrs. Garland."
"Bless us,—I believe you do."
Sorrell agreed to rent the room. He said that he was pleased with it, and taking out his wallet he handed Mrs. Garland his two pound notes. She made as though to give them back to him, but Sorrell asked her to keep them.
"Well,—just as you please. You can take your meals in my kitchen, if that will suit you. It will save me trouble."
"Thank you very much," said Sorrell.
Thereupon he and Christopher went back to the station to fetch the portmanteau, which Sorrell prepared to hoist upon his shoulder. Their possessions did not weigh much, and as Sorrell put it to his son—"I'm getting used to luggage." Christopher, however, was himself as a partner in the adventure, and insisted on helping his father with the portmaneau, and they returned to Vine Court carrying it between them.
Mrs. Garland gave them eggs and bacon for tea; in fact the three of them sat down together, amalgamating very happily in the kitchen, the window of which showed the apple tree lit up by the afternoon sunlight.
