Mr. Aston led the way without a word to his own room. He made no doubt as to what the matter was. Perhaps the shadow of the expected interview had lain too heavily on him of late to leave room for suspicion of other affairs.
It was a long, cheerful room, lined with books, and the furniture was solid and shabby with long service. There was an indefinite atmosphere of peace and repose about it, of leisured days haunted by no grey thoughts, very typical of the owner. The window stood open, though a fire burned clearly on the plain brick hearth, beneath a big hooded chimney-piece.
Mr. Aston indicated a big easy chair to his visitor and seated himself at his writing table, from whence he could see, behind Peter, on the far wall, a portrait of Aymer painted in the pride of his life and youth, so wonderfully like even now in its strong colour and forcible power, and so full of subtle differences and fine distinctions.
“I don’t know even if you’ll listen to me,” began Peter, who knew very well Charles Aston would refuse to listen to no man; “fifteen years ago you told me you’d said your last word on the subject.”
“I beg your pardon, Peter, it was you who said the subject was closed between us.”
“Ah, yes. So I did. May I reopen it?”
“If it can serve any good purpose, but you know my opinions.”
“I thought perhaps they might have altered with the changing years,” said Peter blandly.
“Not one bit, I assure you.” 212
“Really. It never strikes you that I was justified in attending to Elizabeth’s very plainly expressed wishes, or that it might be a happy thing for the boy that I did so.”