Nevil crossed and uncrossed his long legs, gazing abstractedly at a modern picture of mediæval warfare.
“Those helmets are fifteen years too late for that battle,” he volunteered, “and the pikes are German, not French. What a rotten picture. Don’t you think you could come back with me? I hate travelling alone. I always believe I shall get mislaid and be taken to the Lost Property Office. Porters are so careless.”
He did not look round, but continued to examine the details of the offending picture.
Christopher leant over his chair and put his hands on Nevil’s shoulders.
“Nevil, I can’t stand any more. Tell me why I am to come back.”
The other looked up at him with a rueful little smile, singularly like his father’s.
“You were not always so dense, Christopher. I hoped you wouldn’t ask questions that are too difficult to answer. To begin with, neither my father nor Aymer know I’ve come. They think I’m in town. You see, Cæsar misses you, though he wouldn’t have you think so for the world, in case it added to your natural conceit, but it makes him—cross, yes, rather particularly cross and that upsets the house. I can’t write at all, so I thought you had better come back. The fact is,” he added with a burst of confidence, “I’ve promised an article on the Masterpieces of Freedom for August. I seldom promise, but I like to keep my word if I do, and it’s impossible to write now. If you’re enjoying yourself it’s horribly selfish—but you see the importance of it, don’t you?” 252
“Yes,” allowed Christopher with the ghost of a smile, “it’s lamentably selfish of you, but I realise the importance. Shall we go by rail to-night?”
“But Leamington?”
“Will the man run away?”