Page:Sorrell and Son - Deeping - 1926.djvu/270

 a whole row of snobs, and of course—after the smash and we began to quarrel. I put them away. Yes, it happened yesterday; I don't know where she has gone wished her dead. And then—I got out those photos, Sorrell; I wanted to feel that I had decent people. The poor old mater."

He crumpled down in a chair, and Kit pretended to look at the faces of the Pentreaths, Sir George with that air of tired and disillusioned dignity, Maurice's mother smiling as at an audience of working mothers, Elsie sentimental and pensive, Freda rather like a sandy kitten.—And Molly! Kit found himself looking more attentively at Molly Pentreath. Hers was a recent photo, and it seemed to him that she looked older than her sisters. He was interested. He saw the broad yet shapely face, two little half-moons of black hair showing under the brim of the hat, the dark yet fiery eyes, that wavy and mischievous mouth. Attractive, yes, a problematical little devil of a girl, with something of the gloss of browned steel in her eyes.

"Molly's at school," he found himself saying.

"If Molly knew!" said the voice from the chair.

"She needn't know."

And yet Kit had a feeling that he had such a sorry story to tell he would rather have told it to Molly than to any other of the Pentreaths. She was alive. She might flay you, but it was better to be flayed with understanding than to feel that you had wounded people who would refuse to understand.

"Look here,—old chap, you will have to stay in for a week or two. I'll come along each day."

"But the hospital! I'm one of Sir John Durrant's dressers."

Kit's answer was grave, and unanswerable.

"Write to your house-surgeon and say—O,—say your people wanted you down with them. And what about money?"

Pentreath would not reply.

"You must have some sort of allowance."

"A pound a week,—from the mater. And an aunt is going to help."

"All right,—I think I shall be able to let you have a pound a week."