more, and appeared uneasy when he was sitting on the seat under the elm. A discouraged figure. And yet Christopher did not like to ask questions.
"The work makes you rather tired, pater."
"Oh,—a bit. I shall get used to it."
"Couldn't there be—something else?"
"I've got a plan," said Sorrell.
He was always talking about that plan. The more difficult it seemed of attainment the more obsessed was he by the contemplation of it. His plan was like a hypothetical sun invisible during the greater part of an English summer, but there, and liable to shine some day next year. He forced himself to appear confident before the boy, for he realized that Christopher was the only living person who believed in him, and he wanted Christopher to go on believing in him, especially when he was in danger of ceasing to believe in himself. It was suggestion, the dear—trusting stimulus of youth.
One day he was sick, and he went about with a face all pinched and the colour of cream, making himself do things. He was tidying up a disorder of papers in the commercial room when the woman glided in.
"You don't look well, Stephen."
There was a seductive kindness in her voice, and he mumbled something about his dinner not having agreed with him.
"You fuss too much," she said.
He went on tidying the papers, feeling that her presence radiated a false sunlight.
"You—might—do much less—if you cared, you odd fish."
He understood her.
"It's my job," he said.
"As you please."
When she left him he sat down in one of the chairs, and held his head in his hands.'
