He was considering the question of writing to Kit, or of making a sudden descent upon him at Cambridge.
"But what could he say?
"The woman—who was your mother—is staying here at the Pelican. I think she would like you to resume your sonship. Personally, I do not wish you to have anything to do with her."
But would such frankness be wise? His whole purpose had been to perfect a complete comradeship between himself and his son, and to eliminate the shadow of the paternal tyranny. He had chosen the part of friend and counsellor; he had renounced the self-sufficient privilege of issuing orders. Christopher was very dear to him, and he believed himself to be very dear to Christopher. Why not trust to this mutual confidence and affection? Play the new Adam, and let Eve try her wiles? All life is willing and choosing, and Christopher would have to will and to choose.
On the fourth day something happened. The woman came and sat on the seat under the chestnut tree when Sorrell was sitting at his desk. She had a book. She pretended to read, while he made a pretence of writing letters, but the space between them was crossed by their mutual consciousness of an inevitable and approaching skirmish.
Sorrell rose from his chair. She saw his figure disappear from the window, but when he came out by way of the garden door, and crossed the grass towards her, her head was bent over her book. She allowed him to believe that she was unaware of his approach.
He paused in front of her.
"How do you find this place? Comfortable?"
Her quick and upward smile assured him that she had been taken unawares.
"Oh, it's you! Yes,—I'm very comfortable. So far as my experience goes—it is the best-run country hotel in Engand."
Her smile continued. She moved to one end of the seat,—and the space left was an invitation.
"But a hotel is always a hotel."
Her book was closed and laid upon the seat, and the upward glance she gave him still had the edge of a smile.
"Do you ever suffer from curiosity?"
