that sort of woman! A fine pair, and good luck to them.
Kit took the place that the derelict had vacated, and gave Molly his. The two Germans, suddenly and internationally sympathetic, arose and strolled away.
"You brown man," she said.
He sat sideways on the seat, smiling and looking into her eyes.
"I couldn't say what I wanted to say—yesterday—at Chelsea. The time and the place."
"It is very good here. The young green."
He bent towards her.
"Molly,—why did you make no terms?"
She glanced at his eyes and then at his tie.
"Does one,—when life rushes on one—like that? I surrendered."
"You gave—with open hands. And so—will I."
She put up a hand and began to speak, but he took her hand and laid it gently on the seat.
"No,—my turn. I understand things better now. I have been thinking a lot—while I was away. It began during those days. Listen."
His eyes had that happy inward look.
"Your job—as well as mine. We are workers both of us. I'm thinking that work is the worker's child. Half a house each, or a whole house each. Your—atmosphere—as well as mine. No cramping sentimentalities. We go and come as we please."
He covered her hand for a moment with his.
"That last book of yours. Great. I'm proud,—but I am going to be much prouder,—because I'm learning. I'm an awful kid, dear, in some ways."
Her hand turned over on the seat and clasped his.
"Some things are greater than books. Be patient with me, Kit, sometimes."
Sorrell had finished tea. He filled and lit a pipe, and after standing at the open window for a minute with a thoughtful face from which came rhythmic puffs of smoke, he went out into his garden. He had grown very grey
