Aymer turned sharply.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I think,” went on the elder man steadily, “I think, Aymer, it was not only Christopher’s hazy ideas of honour and honesty that angered you, but he forced on your notice the fact that he was his father’s son, that he had in him the germs of that quality which has made his father what he is—a successful man. Isn’t it so?”
Aymer did not answer. It was true, he knew, however great his wish to disown it. Something of the self-dissatisfaction that had numbed poor little Christopher fell to his share. He felt his father was a little hard on him—he could not really understand his relationship to the boy.
“It is not quite fair on Christopher, is it?” said Mr. Aston very gently, “at least that is how it strikes me. I do not want to interfere between you, but I do want you to do yourself full justice in dealing with him.”
Aymer looked suddenly up at his father and laughed. “It is evidently not only Christopher who is in disgrace to-day,” he said ruefully. “I wish I could in 89 turn upbraid you with unfairness, but Christopher has the pull over me there.”
He held out his hand. It was a great concession in Aymer to show even this much demonstration of feeling unasked, and it was appreciated.
“You might say good-night to Christopher when you go upstairs,” Aymer said casually a little later, and his father nodded assent, by no means deceived by the indifferent tone. Both Aymer and Christopher slept the better for his ministrations that night.