There was a silence in the room. Peter puffed vehemently and the clouds of blue-grey smoke circling round him obscured the heavy features from his cousin when his eyes left the picture to look at him.
“Yes, yes, I see. Quite so,” said a voice from the smoke at last, and slowly the strong, bland expressionless face emerged clearly from the halo, “but I am no further on my way towards my son. And who’s to have the money if I don’t find him? Will you?”
“Heaven forbid!—and Nature! Peter, I’m sixty and you are fifty-four.”
“Will Nevil’s boy?”
“We have enough. We should count it a misfortune. Leave it in charities.” 217
“And suppose he discovers some day who he is, and wanted it?”
“Hardly likely after so long.”
“Quite likely. Shall I leave it to Christopher?”
It was the last thrust, and it told. There was quite a long silence. Charles longed passionately to refuse, but even he dared not. The issue was too great. “I cannot dictate to you in the matter,” he said at length, “but I do not think Christopher would appreciate it.”
“Then I must hope to find a Christopher of my own,” returned Peter, rising; “let us meanwhile find Nevil.”