interplay. All was gradualness and growth, and no measure of worrying could make a tree shoot its leaves in winter. The seasons came and went, but all that a man loved went on, like the sap, sleeping or rising.
He watched a streak of sky grow blue.
"Kit will be here to-day," he thought.
Kit came.
He seemed older, and yet to Sorrell his face was the face of Kit the child.
"Pater,—I want to ask you to do something."
"What is it, old chap?"
"It's about money."
Kit stood at the window and held the curtain aside to watch the sunset, much as his father had watched the dawn. The young outline of his face had a tender severity, and the tenderness was for sky and trees. Sorrell, bending over a kettle that was beginning to hiss over the sitting-room fire, looked up and sideways at his son.
"I say—it's jolly here—That sky. One sees so little sky in London."
Sorrell was wondering why Kit needed money.
"I have arranged for you to have a horse to-morrow if you care to ride."
"I'd rather walk, pater,—if you can spare the time."
"I think so."
Sorrell waited. Kit lingered at the window, but not with any air of avoiding his father, and Sorrell watched the kettle.
"How much do you want, Kit?"
"What,—pater?"
"Cash, old chap."
Kit turned suddenly, and leaned against the window casing.
"I don't want money. You are so jolly generous to me. I want you to pay Mrs. Gibbins's bills for me, if I have them sent down. Will you?"
The kettle was boiling, and Sorrell filled the teapot.
"Yes,—but why?"
"Reasons, pater. I can manage my lunches and teas and
