“Young man, you’ll get on in the world,” he said approvingly, “for you’ve learnt the great secret of keeping your own counsel. I prophesy you’ll be a successful man some day.”
Christopher was not at all elated at the prospect. He was wondering why Aymer drank no tea, also wondering how long the visitor meant to stay. There seemed no sign of departing in him, so Christopher asked if he might go and bury the guinea-pig with Vespasian’s help. Aymer nodded permission without speaking. 96
“A cute lad,” remarked Mr. Masters; “what are you going to do with him?”
“I do not know yet.”
“Put him in the iron trade. ’Prentice him to me. There’s something in him. Did you say you didn’t know who his father was?” He shot one of his quick glances at Aymer.
The tortoise-shell paper-knife snapped in two. Aymer fitted the ends together neatly.
“No, I didn’t,” he answered very deliberately. “I told you he was my adopted son. I adopted him in order to have something to do.”
“Oh, yes. Of course, of course.” A slow smile spread over his big face. “Think of Aymer Aston of all men in the world playing at being a family man!”
He leant back in his chair and laughed out his great hearty laugh whose boyish ring, coupled with the laugher’s easy careless manners, had snared so many fish into the financial net.
“They’d like to make a family man of me again—do their dear little best—but I’m not such a fool as they think me. Men with brains and ambitions don’t want a wife. You miss less than you think, old chap,” he went on with the colossal tactlessness habitual to him when his own interests were not at stake; “a wife plays the devil with one’s business. I know.” He nodded gloomily, the smile lost under a heavy frown.