“That was quite unpremeditated on my part,” he protested whimsically; “you are all far too good to me. I can never explain it to myself, but I accept it, and realise I am a real millionaire.”
Constantia Wyatt started slightly. Christopher noticed the diamonds on her hair sparkle as she leant forward.
“How did you discover that?” she asked in a low voice.
“My fortune? I was only ten when I came to Cæsar, but I must have been a very dense child indeed if I had not known even then that the luck of the gods was mine—if I had not been sensible of the kindness––”
His voice was low also and he fell into his old bad habit of leaving his sentence unfinished—hardly knowing he had expressed so much.
Constantia gave a sigh of relief, and Christopher again was only aware of the twinkling diamonds, of melting lines of soft velvet and fur, a presence friendly but unanalysable. They passed at that moment a mansion of a prince of the world of money, and she indicated it with a wave of her fan.
“Supposing, Christopher, you could realise some of your imaginary fortune for his?”
“Heaven forbid. Think how it was made.”
“The world forgets that.”
“You do not forget,” he answered quickly; “besides it’s much nicer to be adopted than to fight other people for fortune.”