of colour, orange, green, blue, cerise. A figure in black was moving amid the streaks of colour.
"What's that?" the boy asked.
Sorrell smiled. They were looking across the old graves into the window of a Staunton modiste's showroom, and it would seem that the modiste had received a consignment of silk "jumpers." She was unpacking them and hanging them up on the stands in her showroom where they glowed brilliantly like jewels in a case.
"Clothes,—Kit."
"They look like bunches of flowers," said the boy.
They passed on, and out by an iron gate into one of the Staunton streets, and so back to Fletcher's Lane, where Sorrell sat and smoked while Christopher undressed and went to bed, port sat there for a long while after the boy had fallen asleep.
"Yes,—there's my job," he reflected.
Undressing very quietly so as not to wake his son, he slipped into the bed beside the boy and lay wondering how he would solve the problems of the morrow.
