Thomas Roland was breakfasting when Sorrell brought him the news.
"Kit has won his scholarship."
Roland lingered a moment in his chair, before pushing it back and rising from the table. He saw Sorrell as a man intensely pale, an inarticulate yet exultant figure, holding an official letter with a hand that trembled.
"By Jove, old man,—I'm glad."
Roland's hand went out. They did not look at each other, but stood close together, Roland very conscious of the other man's restrained emotion.
"I thought he would, you know."
"I hoped so," said Sorrell, staring out of the window; "we owe a good deal to you. I have always felt"
"My dear chap"
"It's true."
For the sake of doing something Roland turned to the breakfast-table and emptied his coffee-cup.
"Look here,—we must have a little dinner to-night. Ask Porteous.—Where's the boy?"
"Gone to tell Porteous. Do you mind if I take an hour off? I want to see Porteous."
There was a smile at the back of Roland's eyes.
"Take the whole day.—By the way—Stephen. O, we'll talk about that later. I expect Porteous will be floating about like a cherub."
"He's a great little man," said Sorrell.
The broad road into Winstonbury was Sorrell's Via Sacra on that summer morning. The Roman celebrated his son's first triumph. "Seven years," he thought; "and this! Tears in the boy's eyes when I told him. Oh,—I'm happy,—happy"
At the little stone house he found Kit sitting on one end of a long deal table in the study, and Bob Porteous in his shirt sleeves, flourishing a baton made out of yesterday's paper, his honey-coloured head shining like a planet. He was exuberant in his elation. He had got very hot; he had taken off his coat; he had kept smacking the table.
