Kit, with a volume of "Operative Surgery" in his hand, smiled gravely at the figure by the window.
"And you, pater."
"And I. We haven't done so badly, old chap. Comes of concentrating on the job. It gives one to think."
"And feel," said Kit.
Presently Sorrell mentioned Pentreath, for he had been able to enjoy a pleasant pity where Pentreath was concerned.
"How's he doing?"
"Settled at Millchester; good old practice. Married again,—you know."
"Who to?"
"A canon's daughter. Haven't seen him for a year. He writes fairly regularly."
"Some men do. Nice mellow, ecclesiastical atmosphere. I suppose it is just the thing!"
"I suppose so. Arthurian, pater. Millchester, in the West, not much harried yet by the barbarians."
"Ah,—the barbarians," said Sorrell. "Poor, greedy children. Pentreath would be no good with greedy children. Nice fellow."
"He is earning his living," said Kit.
"One can do more than that," was Sorrell's reply.
Less than a month from the day of Kit's establishing himself at No. 11 St. Mary's Street, Pentreath reappeared with personal vividness upon his immediate horizon.
Christopher was rung up at St. Martha's. They were calling him from No. 11, and he heard the voice of Page, the woman in the black dress.
"There's a Dr. Pentreath here, sir. Wants to see you very particularly."
"Dr. Pentreath of Millchester?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll be round in half an hour."
Christopher found Pentreath in the waiting-room, a Pentreath who reminded him of the friend who had come to him that day in Brunswick Square.
"Hallo,—old chap."
