"Do you think he minds?"
"I know he doesn't. But it gets me. It's like a flame inside me. I want to give him something back, pride for pride. I want—to—to justify him."
"Well,—you will."
"Oh,—it's nice of you to say that."
"It's not nice; it's backing a big probability. You couldn't have done more, my lad, than you have done. Hang on."
"I'm hanging,—but I'd like to bite the rope through."
"The young man in a hurry! Forgive me. Softlee walkee catchee monkey. Your chance will come."
"Think so?"
"Sure of it."
Before switching off the light that night Roland told Cherry of Kit's impatience.
"Worrying about his chance. Why,—the young beggar, it's there in his face. One of the gods is bound to fall to him."
"Ah," she said, "you always will let yourself be caught by appearances. Mere looks."
"Now that's not fair. I could reduce it to a personal question. Looks do matter. 'I do not like you, Dr. Fell!' Kit's likeable, tremendously likeable. Those eyes and mouth,—and the smile. Character. Now,—I'll bet you"
"Do be quiet. I think I hear baby"
"Explicit," said Roland, hunching up his pillow.
There were times when Christopher felt so restless about the future that he became a tramper of streets, one of those unsatisfied young Titans to whom London at night is like every other man's wife. His youth was strong in him, urgent, ambitious, and when doors are locked youth's inclination flies to a crowbar rather than to a key. Moreover, London is provocative to the fiercely obscure, like some splendid courtezan laughing derisively in their pinched and hungry faces, giving herself to the old men and to the rich. To have no flower of fame to offer is to be infamous, and
