He could have struck her in the face, and his suppressed passion gave her the sort of emotion that she found pleasurable. She liked using her claws on men, driving them to various exasperations, and not for a long time had she had such a victim.
"I'll take it," he said. "When shall I start?"
She had turned on the sofa to place a finger on the push of an electric bell. Sorrell heard the distant "burr" of it. She sat as though waiting for someone in order to keep him waiting.
"What did you say?"
Her manner was offhand.
"I asked you—madam—when I should start?"
"Right away. I'll give you an hour to fix up that kid of yours."
"Thank you," he said, and opened the door to go.
But she called him back as her husband entered the room.
"I've taken this man on. He is going to fetch his things."
Mr. Palfrey, stertorous and staring, was nothing but a fat figure of consent.
"Right, my dear."
"That's all, Sorrell. Be back in an hour."
It took Sorrell five minutes to reach the upper room of the house in Fletcher's Lane, and he found Christopher at the window looking out upon the world of Staunton's roofs.
"I have got a job, Kit."
The boy gave him that happy, radiant smile.
"I am glad, pater. What is it?"
Sorrell took one of the first steps towards the greater courage.
"I'm porter at the Angel Hotel."
