“That’s the kitchen door,” said Murray.  “Our main entrance is in front on the landing above.  It’s quicker for me to get out this way in the morning, and I don’t have to disturb anybody.”

A few mornings later, Murray was late again, and Keith after long hesitation walked up to the kitchen door and knocked.  A pleasant-faced serving girl opened.

“Oh, you are the little fellow who waits for George every morning,” she said with a smile.  “Come in and wait here.  He’ll be ready in a moment.”

After that Keith went straight up to the kitchen every morning.  It was a room as large as a hall, shiningly clean, and well furnished as a dining and living-room for the three women serving there.  Keith became quite familiar with it, but he always remained by the door, and he always felt that he ought not to be there.  Yet he could no more resist going there than he could stop breathing, it seemed.

That kitchen was the only part of Murray’s home he ever saw.  He never caught a glimpse even of his friend’s mother, who evidently was a very exclusive lady.  Two or three times he saw Murray on the street after school hours in company with a tall, portly and handsome gentleman, whom he took to be the father.  Later his guess was confirmed, but Murray never showed any inclination to let his parents become aware of Keith’s existence.

For a long while this did not matter to Keith.  In fact, he was not aware of anything but his own devotion.  Murray’s willingness to accept it only when nothing else was in sight did not bother him.  He had found some one to worship at last, and he gave himself to that feeling with an abandon that knew of no reserves and that asked no questions.  He looked up to the other boy as, in ages long gone by, a faithful vassal used to look up to his liege lord.  And it seemed only meet that such a superior being as Murray should bestow or withhold his favour in accordance with his own sweet pleasure.

XVII

Keith had just parted from his chum at the corner of the lane one afternoon, when he caught sight of Johan near the big back door of the house opposite the one where Murray lived.

“What are you doing,” he said without much enthusiasm.

Johan beckoned mysteriously and would not say a word until he had got Keith into the shadow of the huge gateway leading to the paved yard in the rear of the house.

“Can’t you come on,” he cried impatiently at last “I don’t want mumsey to see me.”

When both were hidden from the kitchen window through which Fru Gustafsson used to keep a religiously preoccupied eye on the doings of her son, Johan pulled a cigarette from within his coat sleeve and a match from his pocket.  Then he scratched the match on the seat of his pants and lit the cigarette with the air of a man who knows what is bliss.  Keith watched him with feelings too confused for expression.