“Oh, it had to be done,” responded Aymer, turning his face to him with a rueful smile. “I’m a brute. Nevil, old fellow, you ought to give him a V. C. or something; he is positively heroic.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” retorted his father, blushing for all his fifty-eight years, because of a grain of truth in his son’s words. For indeed it sometimes requires more courage to be brutal to those we love than to be kind to those we hate.
“Go away, Nevil,” continued Mr. Aston good humouredly, “I’ll look after Aymer.”
Nevil departed, with secret relief, the atmosphere was a little too electrical for his liking. 88
When he had gone, Mr. Aston went over to his elder son and sat on the edge of the sofa.
“What’s really the matter, old chap?” he asked gently.
Aymer related the whole history of the sovereign, Christopher’s confession and the subsequent events.
“I dare say he was quite honest about his point of view,” he concluded petulantly, “but because I could not see it I lost my temper with him.”
His father sat thoughtfully considering the carpet.
“It will be a little hard on Christopher,” he said at length, very slowly and without looking up, “if every time he has the misfortune to remind you of his father you lose your temper with him.”