Charles Aston had rendered but small homage to time. He was as erect and thin as ever, hair perhaps a little white, but the kind eyes had lost nothing of their penetrating quality.
Christopher’s welcome could not have been warmer had it been his own father. Max went ahead to find Charlotte and left the two to come on together.
“How is Cæsar?” demanded Christopher, the moment they were alone.
“Can’t you wait for his own report?”
“I want yours.” There was an urgent insistence in his voice, and Mr. Aston looked at him sharply.
“Well, he is decidedly better since he came down here, and I want him to stay, Christopher, to give up London in the end perhaps altogether.”
“He has not been well then?”
“I have not thought so: but what made you suspicious, my dear boy?”
“His letters have been over-witty and deliberately satirical. Just the sort of things he says when something is wrong.”
Mr. Aston nodded.