Embarrassment and curiosity struggled for the mastery in the young aristocrat by his side.
“And you really did tramp?” he ventured at length.
“Yes, for a time, but we were not like that. My mother was—was a lady, educated, and all that, I think, only quite poor. She understood poor people and tramps. We used to walk with them, talk to them. They were kind.”
“And if Cæsar hadn’t adopted you?”
“I should be a workhouse porter by now, perhaps,” laughed Christopher lightly and then was silent. A picture of the possible or rather of the inevitable swam before his eyes; a picture of a hungry, needy soul compassed by wants, by fierce desires, with the dominant will to fulfil them and no means, and the world against him. He did not reason it out to a logical conclusion, but he saw it clearly.
Max concluded the subject was not to be discussed and went on with an explanation of why Christopher had not been met in state after four years’ absence.
“The motor was to come for you, but it’s gone wrong, and Aymer said you’d rather walk than drive, 163 and we were not quite certain of the train. Do you really hate driving, Christopher?”
“Yes, I always think the horses will run away. Aymer knows that. Is it really four years since I was here, Max?”
“Yes, at Christmas. You never came down when you were in town two years ago. It was a beastly shame of you.”
“I’d only two months and Cæsar wanted me. That was before I went to Switzerland, wasn’t it? They know something about road-making there, Max, but I’ve learnt more in France.”