“Not at all. I don’t suppose you’d come without. Can you shoot?”
“A bit,” he admitted.
“Be particular about the rifles. I can take you to a little corner in Canada where the bears don’t stand on ceremony. Put everything in hand, and be ready to come down to Cornwall with me on Monday.”
“Cornwall!” Aynesworth exclaimed. “What on earth are we going to do in Cornwall?”
“I have an estate there, the home of my ancestors, which I am going to sell. I am the last of the Setons, fortunately, and I am going to smash the family tree, sell the heirlooms, and burn the family records!”
“I shouldn’t if I were you,” Aynesworth said quietly. “You are a young man yet. You may come back to your own!”
“Meaning?”
“You may smoke enough cigarettes to become actually humanized! One can never tell! I have known men proclaim themselves cynics for life, who have been making idiots of themselves with their own children in five years.”
Wingrave nodded gravely.
“True enough,” he answered. “But the one thing which no man can mistake is death. Listen, and I will quote some poetry to you. I think—it is something like this:—