“What a pity.”
She went on with her soup, with a little rose of colour on her face, thinking of the secret her husband had of course confided to her. Presently observing St. Michael hardly touched his dinner and seemed too weary to talk, she suggested nervously that she should sit with Aymer that evening. He conjured up a kind smile of thanks, but refused in his gentle, courteous way, saying that Aymer seemed disinclined to talk.
When Mr. Aston went back to the West Room a little later, that disinclination seemed to have evaporated. He heard Cæsar’s furious voice pouring a cascade of biting words on someone as he opened the door. Vespasian was the unfortunate occasion and the unwilling victim; Vespasian, who was older by twenty years than in the days when he stood unmoved before continuous and worse storms. His usually impassive face was rather red and he now and then uttered a dignified protest and finally bent to pick up the shattered glass that lay between them and was the original cause of the trouble. Aymer, with renewed invective, clutched a book to hurl at the unfortunate man, but before he could fling it, Mr. Aston leant over the head of the sofa and seized his wrists. The left would have been powerless in a child’s grasp and the elder man’s position made him master of the still strong right arm.
At a faint sign from Mr. Aston, Vespasian vanished.
Aymer made one unavailing attempt to free himself as his father drew his hands up level with his head. He tried not to look at the face leaning over him.
“Aymer,” said his father, with great tenderness, “do you remember what I used to do with you when you were a little boy and lost your temper?”
Aymer gave a short, uneasy laugh. “Tie my hands 260 to a chair or a bed head. It was all right then, it is taking a mean advantage now.” He ended with a choking laugh again, and Mr. Aston felt his hands tremble under his careful grasp.
“Aymer, my dear old fellow, if you must turn on someone, then turn on me. I understand how it is. Vespasian doesn’t. That’s not fair. It’s the way of a fractious invalid, not of a sane man. Where’s your pride?”
Aymer bit his lip. He was helpless and humiliated, but after all it was his father. He looked up at him at last with a crooked smile.
“I’ve none—in your power like this, sir. Let me go, I’ll be a good boy.”