Mr. Aston looked at him sadly. He had no such hope, nor was he even certain he was justified in seconding Cæsar’s wish that the fortune should pass Christopher by. The nearer the great thing came to them the more difficult was it to ignore the vastness of the interests involved, and the greater the responsibility of those who stood motionless between Christopher and it. Yet Mr. Aston knew as well as Aymer that neither of them would move from their position, and if they had acted wrongly in following the wishes of the dead woman in preference to the material instincts of the living man, they must accept the result, and Christopher must accept it, too.
But he felt keenly Aymer’s failure to present an unbiassed face to the turn of circumstances.
“How long will it be before Saunderson acts if he has any clue to go on?” Aymer asked wearily after a long silence.
“He would act immediately, but whether that would land him on the right line would depend on the 303 strength of the clue. Aymer, my dear fellow, try and put the matter from you. You are not going to act yourself.”
“No, but I’m no hand at waiting.”
That was true, and as usual the days of suspense told heavily on Aymer. Christopher’s return was an immense relief. He had had a heavy spell of work and travelling, and allowed himself a few days’ holiday. It happened that Patricia was also at Marden. She spent so large a percentage of her time with Constantia now that her presence in the house that had been her home more resembled a visit than Christopher’s comings and goings. No one had mentioned the fact that she was there to him, and he found her in the drawing-room before dinner kneeling by the fire and coaxing it into a cheery blaze.
“You are a regular truant, Patricia,” he complained after their greeting.
“Constantia maintains I am at school with her and calls me truant when I run down here for a few days.”
“Are you at school? What does she teach you?”
“Subjects too deep for mere man,” she retorted lightly. She continued to kneel with her back to him and the light touched her wonderful hair, that still seemed too heavy a crown for the proud little head. It was like molten gold. Christopher felt a new heartache for the days when he could touch it without fear in the blind bravery of boyhood. He wanted to see her face which she so persistently turned from him.