“Christopher, come to me,” called Aymer quietly.
At that he turned and walked mechanically to the sofa, seating himself, again with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes absently fixed on the carpet.
“Did you know this before, Cæsar?”
Aymer’s face twitched. “Yes, always.”
“Did—he—know?”
“Yes, apparently.”
“You did not tell him?”
“No.”
Christopher looked up sharply and met his eyes, and 313 again he forgot his own intimate trouble before the greater one.
“Thanks, Cæsar,” he said, dragging up a smile, “it would have been far harder at your hand.”