Christopher looked round the room and back at the sofa. The voice was kind and the arm that was round him gripped him firmly; also, Mr. Aston had said he lived here too. That was reassuring. He was not quite certain how he felt towards this strangely fascinating man, but he was quite sure of his sentiments towards Mr. Aston.
“Mr. Aston lives here, doesn’t he?”
“Yes; do you like him best?”
“I like him very much,” said Christopher truthfully, and added considerately, “You see, I’ve known him longer, haven’t I?”
“You must like me too.”
Christopher was too young to read the passionate 21 hunger in the voice and the look. It was gone in a moment.
Aymer released him, laughing.
“Is there anyone else?” asked the boy, looking vaguely round.
“Anyone else living here? Only the servants.”
“I don’t mean that.” A puzzled look came into his face. “I mean—there was Mrs. Moss and Grannie Jane, and Mrs. Sartin and Jessy and mother.” Then he recollected Mr. Aston’s prohibition and got red and embarrassed.