He had questions to discuss.
"When I have written and read my thesis, pater,—I can stand on my own feet."
Sorrell was poking the winter fire.
"Earn money?"
"Yes,—after all these years."
Kit was aware of his father's face and head lit by the glow of the flames. Sorrell was growing grey.
"That's not my view, old chap. You have been very good about money. It isn't our idea—is it—that you should become a G.P.?"
Kit remained silent.
"Hospital appointments?"
"Yes."
"And after that"
"It may take a long time, pater, and all the while I shall."
"Should you mind? Don't take my job away, my son, until I have seen it finished. The most damnable part of life for most of us is that we have to plunge into the muddy stream in order to make money. Before we are ready. Before we have had our opportunity. Money means growth, time to draw one's breath."
Kit had another fit of silence.
"Am I—your job, pater?"
"I think so!"
"You have been so jolly good to me."
"Kit!" said his father, and smiled.
Christopher's hand went out.
"I know. It means such a lot to me. Kennard is to become one of the seniors next month; old Goddard is retiring. Kennard wants me to be his house-surgeon. That will mean six months. And then—six months as house-physician. After that—a surgical registrarship—I'm pretty sure to get one; that might mean another year or two. After that—of course—I should try for an assistant-surgeonship; it might necessitate some waiting; but if I once get on the staff."
"Say—five years," said Sorrell. "There will be the Fellowship too."
"Yes."
"You will be getting your keep most of the time. And
