The Sartins no longer inhabited Primrose Buildings, but were proud inhabitants of a decent little house in a phenomenally dull street, sufficiently near the big “Store” to suit Sam’s convenience. Sam himself came to the door and, late as it was, insisted on walking back with Christopher into the region of cabs, and, becoming engrossed in conversation, naturally walked far beyond it.
“This partnership business,” began Sam at once, “I do wish, Chris, you’d get Mr. Aymer to make it a loan business. I’d be a sight better pleased.”
“I can’t for the life of me see why,” Christopher objected with a frown. “It’s only a matter of a few hundred pounds, and if Cæsar chooses to spend it on you instead of buying a picture or enamel, or that sort of toy, why should you object. It’s not charity.”
“Then what is it?” demanded Sam, “because I’m not a toy. Don’t fly out at me, Chris, be reasonable. I’m as grateful to him as I can be, and I mean to use 180 the chance he’s given me all I can. But this partnership business beats me. It’s all very well for him to do things for you. Of course he couldn’t do less; but how do I come in?”
A drunken man reeled out of a house and lurched against Christopher, who put out his hand to steady him without a word of comment, and when the drinker had found his balance, he turned again to Sam with sharp indignation.
“He could do a jolly sight less for me and still be more generous than most people’s fathers. There’s no ‘of course’ about it.”
Sam stared stolidly in front of him.
“That’s just it. It’s one thing to do it for someone belonging to one, and another thing to do it for a stranger,” he persisted.
“Well, that’s just how I feel, only I don’t make a fuss. It’s Cæsar’s way, and a precious good way for us.”
They parted at last with no better understanding on the vexed subject, and Christopher, once back at Aston House, sat frowning over the fire instead of going to bed. Why all of a sudden had this question of his amazing indebtedness to Aymer been so persistently thrust on him. Hitherto he had accepted it with generous gratitude, without question, had recognised no room for speculation, allowed no play to whispers of curiosity. It was Cæsar’s will. Now he was suddenly aware, however he might close his mind, others speculated; however guard his soul from inquisitiveness, others questioned, and it angered him for Cæsar’s sake. His mother had never spoken to him of the past, never opened her lips as to the strange sacrifice she had made for her unborn child, except once when they were hurriedly leaving London by stealth, after the episode with Martha Sartin’s rascally husband. Mrs. Hibbault had remarked wearily: “I 181 wonder, Jim, shall I spend my life taking you out of the way of bad men?”