He turned to Christopher.
“This is Mr. Dreket, my secretary. Dreket, show Mr. ––” for an imperceptible moment he paused—“Mr. Aston his room and explain the ways of the place to him. I’ve some letters to see to.”
He turned aside down a long corridor. Christopher and the secretary looked at each other.
“I shan’t be sorry for a wash and brush up,” said Christopher, smiling.
The other gave a little sigh, expressive more of relief than fatigue, and led the way upstairs. As they went up the wide marble steps Mr. Masters reappeared and stood for a moment in the shadow of an arch watching the dark, erect young head till it was out of sight, then he retraced his steps and disappeared in his own room.
Christopher did not see him again till dinner-time. 233 The two dined together at a small table that was an oasis in a desert of space. The room was hung with modern pictures set in unpolished wood panelling. Peter vaguely apologised for them to one accustomed to the company of the masterpieces of the dead.
“I’m no judge. I should be taken in if I bought old ones,” he said. “So I buy new, provided they are by possible men. They may be worth something, some day, eh?”
“They are very good to look at now,” Christopher answered, a little shyly, looking at a vast sea-scape which seemed to cool the room with a fresh breeze.
“You Astons would have beaten me anyhow,” pursued Peter. “I’ve got nothing old: but the new’s the best of its kind.”
Christopher found this was true. Everything in the house was modern. There was no reproduction, no imitation. It was all solidly and emphatically modern: glass, china, furniture, books, pictures, the silk hangings, the white statuary in the orangery: all modern. There was nothing poor or mean or artistically bad, but the whole gave an impression of life yet to be lived, an incompleteness that was baffling in its obscurity.