like a grenadier in a sentry box, brought Kit to a pause. Kit had come to respect Mrs. Gibbins as a plain and capable woman who did her job, and who had not turned a sour face upon him when he had been laid up for a fortnight with an acute attack of "flu."
"I'm glad you have come in. A gentleman has been waiting to see you,—since four."
"O," said Kit, appreciating the solemnity of Mrs. Gibbins's face.
"Behaving most queerly too,—banging things about. Ada went up and found him sobbing."
"Who is it?"
"He wouldn't give a name, said you'd know."
"What age?"
"Oh,—about your age, Mr. Sorrell."
Kit sprinted upstairs, to find the blinds of his room drawn, and Pentreath extended in the big arm-chair, a long, stiff, desolate figure, all eyes and ruffled hair. He did not move, but lay looking at Kit with a curious and aggressive shame-facedness. And Kit, in the out-patient department, had seen women with that look upon their faces.
He closed the door.
"Hallo,—old chap."
He had not seen Pentreath for three months, but the Pentreath whom he saw in his chair had a slovenly, unshaven, frightened air.
"What's wrong, old chap?"
Kit had the three roses in his hand, and as he came round the table he noticed that Pentreath's eyes fixed themselves upon the roses. They were dilated eyes, full of an inward horror.
"Don't—Sorrell"
He made a movement with one hand, an hysterical and jerky movement.
"Don't bring those flowers near me. I can't bear it. They are so clean."
"My dear old chap,—what's the matter?"
He turned to place the flowers behind a pile of books on a side-table, and he heard the creaking of Pentreath's chair.
"I'm married."
"Married!"
