Something happened to Kit, but he seemed to shake his shoulders and to put his head back. He came and stood by Sorrell's chair, and his eyes and his voice were gentle.
"I want to look at you."
"Need you?"
"Father,—I must."
Sorrell moved in his chair, and Kit bent down and helped him up. They entered the cottage together and passed into the sitting-room.
"Will the sofa do?"
"Yes. The light is pretty good, I want your things undone. Let me."
Sorrell lay with closed eyes and a cushion under his head while his son's hands touched him. They were cool and deliberate, but back of them he seemed to feel a quivering of Kit's courage. So, it mattered to Kit. He thanked life for it, and for the infinite solace of his son's caring.
"Hurt at all?"
"Just a little."
"Let yourself go slack, pater, and breathe deeply."
Sorrell opened his eyes for a moment on his son's face, and in Kit's eyes he saw death realized. There was a silence. Kit pulled down his father's shirt as though he were drawing a curtain, turned aside, and stood looking out of the window.
"I should like Orange to see you."
"All right."
"I'll wire for him. One—one can't judge quite accurately, pater, when one's."
Sorrell was fastening his braces, and with a little effort he sat up.
"I know. But I am afraid there is not much doubt about it, old chap. My finis. I'm not afraid."
Kit moistened his lips.
"It's damnable," he said, "utterly damnable. The thing might have left you. You might have had years"
Sorrell gave a little wincing smile.
"But it hasn't. Besides—my job is through. I'm a little proud of it, old chap."
His hands hooked themselves under the wooden frame of the sofa.
