"Quite so. Nurse"
"Do you mind if I give it to her, if you fill the syringe? I'd like to."
"Quite so," said the little man.
Kit ran the needle into the whiteness of Mary Jewett's arm.
"No more pain, dear. I'm staying."
Presently, her dark eyes grew more blurred.
"Kit,—Kit, are you there?"
"Yes."
"Do you love me? Did I?"
"Mary,—my darling."
"I'm so—so happy."
Sorrell was troubled by Christopher's letter.
"Kennard has let me off for a week, and a friend is doing my work. I am coming down to-morrow."
It was a very short letter, and it said less than any, letter of Kit's had ever said, yet Sorrell felt convinced that something had happened or was going to happen, and that the happenings concerned the Shadow Woman. He was troubled. He spent one of the most wakeful nights of his life, wondering whether Kit had fallen into the male madness. He thought of Pentreath's son freed from a miserable relationship after months of spying and lawyering and humiliation. If the thing had happened to Kit he was ready to swear that it had happened very differently.
Sorrell did not go to Winstonbury Station. Whatever the crisis might be, he felt that he would let it come to him and not go to meet it. He had taken up gardening, and had developed the little piece surrounding the cottage, and had filled it with roses, and Kit found his father syringing the aphides on his hybrid teas. Kit had walked from the station, carrying his suitcase; he was wearing a black tie.
"Hallo,—pater."
Sorrell's eyes had touched his son with one devoted and careful look, a doctor's glance. He replaced the syringe in the bucket, wiped his hands on his handkerchief, and was conscious of an intense and intuitive relief.
"Had tea, old chap?"
