happened to be empty, and the lioness had deserted her den, Roland sat and watched Sorrell over the top of a book. Sorrell was on one of his usual rounds, going from table to table, and Roland's eyes studied his long-fingered and intelligent hands. They were very quick and deft, but a little hurried.
He came to Mr. Roland's table, and Roland, putting down his book, looked up at Sorrell.
"What are you doing here?"
"Tidying up, sir."
"No,—I don't mean that."
There was no resentment in Sorrell's questioning stare. He emptied Mr. Roland's ash-tray into the old metal flower-pot he used as a receptacle.
"I have got a boy. You saw him."
"The father for the son instead of the son for the father! I needn't ask you whether you loathe this job."
"It isn't the job, sir. The job's necessary."
"But the place. And yet you stick it. There's a reason."
"Necessity."
Roland moved easily in his chair.
"Look here, Stephen. What's your other name?"
"Sorrell, sir."
"Rank?"
"Does that matter?"
"I'm a deliberate person. Well, as one man to another"
"Captain."
"War service,—only?"
"Yes."
"Any decorations?"
"M.C."
"I got nothing but a mention in dispatches. Are you going out to-night?"
"I expect so, sir."
"Well,—let's meet at that elm tree and have a talk. If you could leave your boy at home—for once."
Sorrell stood there looking at the ash-tray that he had emptied. His face was intensely serious. His right hand gripped the lapel of his coat.
"This talk of yours, sir, is it personal?"
"As personal as you please."
