He winced. Her words probed the still raw wound. But unaware of the appositeness of her remark Miss Craven continued thoughtfully, still staring into the fire:
“The Supreme Sculptor, when He made me, denied me the good looks that are proverbial in our family—but in compensation he endowed me with a solid mind to match my solid body. The Family means a great deal to me, Barry—more than anybody has ever realised—and there are times when I wonder why the solidity of mind was given to the one member of the race who could not perpetuate it in the direct line.” She sighed, and then as if ashamed of unwonted emotion, jerked her dishevelled grey head with a movement that was singularly reminiscent of her nephew. Craven flushed.
“You're the best man of the family, Aunt Caro.”
“So your mother used to say—poor child.” Her voice softened suddenly. She got up restlessly and resumed her former position before the fire, her hands back in the pockets of her mannish coat.
“What about your plans, Barry? What are you going to do?” she said briskly, with an evident desire to avoid further moralising. He joined her on the hearthrug, leaning against the mantelpiece.
“I propose to settle down—at any rate for a time, at the Towers,” he replied. “I intend to interest myself in the estates. Peter insists that I am wanted, and though that is nonsense and he is infinitely more necessary than I am, still I am willing to make the trial. I owe him more than I can even repay—we all do—and if my presence is really any help to him—he's welcome to it. I shall be about as much real use as the fifth wheel of a coach—a damned rotten wheel at that,” he added bitterly. And for some minutes he seemed to forget that there was more to say, staring silently into the fire and from time to time putting together the blazing logs with his foot.
Miss Craven was possessed of the unfeminine attribute of holding her tongue and reserving her comments. She refrained from comment now, rocking gently backward and forward on her heels—a habit associated with mental concentration.
“I shall take the child to the Towers,” he continued at length, “and there I shall want your help, Aunt Caro.” He paused stammering awkwardly—“It's an infernal impertinence asking you to—to—”
“To turn nursemaid at my time of life,” she interrupted. “It is certainly a career I never anticipated. And, candidly, I have doubts about its success,” she laughed and shrugged, with a comical grimace. Then she patted his arm affectionately—“You had much better take Peter's advice and marry a nice girl who would mother the child and give her some brothers and sisters to play with.”
He stiffened perceptibly.