“He is my second cousin, his mother was an Aston, and he is one of the richest men in England, if not quite the richest. He is thought rich even in America.”
“And horrid, too, just the same: only perhaps I oughtn’t to say so as he is your cousin,” added the boy with sudden confusion.
Aymer regarded him with an introspective air.
“He is a strange man, though many people don’t like him. We were great friends once.”
Christopher opened his eyes very wide.
“You—and Mr. Masters?”
“Yes—when I was a young man like others. We quarrelled—or rather I quarrelled—he came to see me when I was first—ill,” he jerked the word out awkwardly, but never took his eyes from Christopher’s 104 face. “I was perfectly brutal to him. That’s twelve years ago. Most men would never have spoken to me again, but he doesn’t bear malice.”
“He wouldn’t mind what anyone said to him,” persisted Christopher; “fancy your being friends!”
“You like me best then?”
Master Christopher caught up a pillow and hurled it at him, and then made a violent effort to smother him under it.