He realized the nearness of a panic mood.
He got up. "When you are in a blue funk, do something." That was one of the human tags brought back from France. He remembered that he had won his M.C. by "doing something" as a protest against the creeping paralysis of intense ear.
He walked back to Fletcher's Lane, and climbing the stairs, paused for a moment outside the door of the room. He was trembling. He heard the woman moving somewhere below, and leaning over the banisters he called to her.
"We are ready for tea, please."
His own voice surprised him. It was resonant, and it had a quality of cheerfulness, and it seemed to express the upsurging within him of some subconscious element that was stronger than his conscious self. He opened the door and went in.
The boy was standing by the window. He had unpacked their belongings; a nightshirt and a pair of pyjamas lay on the bed; brushes, a razor, a comb, and three old pipes were arranged upon the dressing-table.
Father and son looked at each other.
"Well, my son, what about tea?"
Kit continued to look at his father; his eyes were very solemn.
"Mr. Verity's dead," said the father; "he died this morning. So—Staunton's a wash-out. Well, what about tea?"
The boy's face seemed to flush slightly. His lips moved. It was as though he was aware of something in his father, something fine and piteous, a courage, something that made him want to burst into tears.
"Sorry, pater."
His lips quivered.
"We—we'll have to make the best of it."
And suddenly—and with a kind of fierceness, Sorrell caught his son and kissed him.
Afterwards, they went out and sat in the cathedral and wandered about the Close under the shade of the elms and limes. The evening was very still, and the sunlight sifted through the trees and lay gently upon the mown grass.
