In his sleepiness and agitation the boy had dropped back into country dialect. Aymer winced. 23
“That is the only name you know? Well, Christopher, it’s a good name, but all the same I want you to forget it at present. I want you to call yourself always, Christopher Aston. Do you think you can remember?”
The newly-named one stood silent, puzzling out something in his mind.
“Will it make me not belong to mother?” he said at last.
There was a faint movement on the sofa. It was Mr. Aston who answered, putting his hand gently on the boy’s head.
“No, little Christopher, nothing will make you cease to belong to her; we do not wish that. But it will be more easy for you to have our name. We want Christopher Aston to have a better time than poor little Jim Hibbault. Only, Christopher, remember Aston is my name, and I am only lending it to you, and you must take very great care of it.”
“Isn’t it his name too?” The child edged a little nearer his friend, and looked at Aymer.
“Yes, it’s Aymer’s name too. And, Christopher, if we were both to give you everything we possess we could not give you anything we value more than the name we lend you, so you must be very good to it. Now, Aymer, I insist on your ringing for Vespasian: the child should have been in bed hours ago. I must really buy you a book of nursery rules.”
Vespasian was apparently of the same mind as Mr. Aston. Disapproval was plainly expressed on his usually impassive face when he entered.
“Is that Vespasian?” demanded Christopher.