"You are a sport, pater."
"That's all right," said Sorrell, blushing slightly, and gripping Kit's shoulder for a moment; "why not go up and spend that week-end with your mother?"
He saw Kit's face take on an expression of surprised solemnity.
"I have been wanting to talk about that."
"Right. I'm ready. The porridge is on the sideboard."
Christopher helped himself to porridge, sugared it liberally, and disposed of half a dozen spoonfuls before he found his voice.
"I think it was rather fine of you, pater, to give me that opening."
"Not a bit. If you want to go."
"I don't want to go. I mean—if I go—it won't be because I want to,—but I have a queer feeling that I ought to go—just once."
"Because she is your mother?"
Kit sat silent for a little while, staring hard at the bacon dish.
"No,—because of you."
It was Sorrell's turn to pause.
"O,—how's that?"
"Well,—supposing she thinks that she could matter as much as you? I want her to know—what sort of friends you and I are. It's fair to her in a way, isn't it, pater? I don't look upon her as my mother; I never shall."
Sorrell stared hard at his son.
"Kit," he said presently, "I don't know what to say about it. You have got me rather hard—over the heart."
"That's all right," said his son hurriedly, falling fiercely upon his porridge; "that's all right. So long as you and I understand each other."
