"She's in there," he thought; "doing her job. We are workers, both of us."
Kit was not called out of bed that night, and he went with a feeling of freshness and of adventure into Orange Court; and up the dark stairs. Mary opened the door to him, a different Mary and yet the same; she looked prettier; she had more colour, natural colour. She stood there, looking at him and smiling, and yet there was much more behind her smile. It made him feel that he belonged.
"Well,—how's the patient?"
He was shy, and a little formal, but his eyes belied his formality.
"Doing so well. She's asleep."
"I'm afraid I shall have to wake her."
She brushed close to him as he entered, a nearness that was quite unstudied and instinctive. There was a vase full of flowers on the table, rose-red and white asters. The door of Mary's bedroom was open, and her red rose coat was hanging there.
She had observed that quick glance of his.
"I love that colour."
"It ought to suit you—rather well," he said.
During the last week of his month's clerkship Christopher saw Mary Jewett seven times, four times at Orange Court, once outside the Pelargonium, and on the two other occasions he took her out to tea at a little place in the Charing Cross Road. On the last evening they had wandered,—it was a Sunday—and they had stood by the parapet in Trafalgar Square, and watched the lights. Thence they had idled down to the river, saying little, but feeling the fierce dear pressure of the young life behind their words. Sometimes their arms touched as they walked.
Kit learnt that she was three years older than he was.
"That means a lot,—Mr. Christopher."
"Does it?"
"Makes me feel motherly. You're such a boy."
"I'm more of a man than you think," he said.
