“He shall have the Foundry to play with—a garden city for them if he likes. His own affair run on his own silly lines.” So he thought, ready to sweep to oblivion rule and system for the possession of this son of his.
But there remained Aymer.
Whether he gained Christopher in the end or not the very making of the claim would make a break between Aymer and his adopted son,—a gulf over which they would stretch out hands and never meet.
Aymer loved him. Aymer of the maimed life, the shattered hopes, whose destiny filled Peter with sick pity even now, so that he stretched out his great arms and moved sharply with a dumb thankfulness to something that he could move.
He might as well rob a child—or a beggar—better: he could give them a possible equivalent.
He went slowly to the side table and had a second whiskey and soda, mechanically as he had done at first, then he rang the bell.
When Christopher sought him shortly before dinner-time he was told curtly he could go to London at his leisure and purchase a car where and how he liked, so it were a good one.
“I shall want a chauffeur with it,” he added, “English, mind. You can charge your expenses with your commission, whatever that is.”
Christopher said gravely he would consider the matter.
“You can send me word how Aymer is,” concluded Masters shortly. “I suppose he’s ill. The whole lot of you spoil him outrageously.”