"Because—you are blithering idiots, above," replied a voice from above.
The eternal question blew itself out, and four irresponsible young men big with youth cast about for other methods of self-expression.
"Let's go up and rag old Solly."
They arrived, tumbling up the stairs, and stood bunched in Christopher's doorway, sighting him as a shadowy figure in a chair with a writing-pad on his knee.
"Pomes," said one of them, "pomes to Alice."
"Hallo,—old H2O."
"O, get out," said Kit, "I'm busy. Go and put on another fox-trot."
They fell upon him and there was a minute's commotion during which Kit with perfect good temper gave as good as he got, and having extricated himself and pulled Burgoyne's coat over his head, thrust him vigorously between the legs of a Rugger "blue."
"Kiss her—now, old thing."
Someone switched on the light, and got hold of Kit's writing-pad but Kit's voice became suddenly unplayful.
"Drop that."
"Dear old pater"
"Drop it"
The farceur dropped it, not merely because Sorrell was a marked man with the gloves, but also because he was a decent lad.
"Right O, Solly."
Kit smiled at him.
"Quits, you chaps. I'll come down presently when I have finished a letter."
Hot and satisfied, they left him with a wildly ruffled head and went below. The gramophone resumed its melody.
"Why did I kiss?"
Kit wrote his letter, and the inward refrain of it was—"Why did—she—come here?"
Sorrell sat reading Christopher's letter.
