He was saying to himself that Pamela was extremely pretty, and Desmond a splendid fellow. Then—in a moment—while he looked at his young brother, a vision, insistent, terrible, passed ghost-like between him and the boy. Again and again he tried to shake it off, and again and again it interposed.
'Oh, Aubrey, what will you do?' said Pamela despairingly, leaning her head against her brother's knee.
Her voice recalled him. He laid his hand upon her beautiful hair.
'Well, dear, there's only one thing, of course, for me to do—to stick to Beryl and let father do his worst.'
'Hurrah!' said Desmond. 'That's all right. And of course you know, Aubrey, that if father tries any hankey-pankey with the estate, and leaves it to me, I shall give it back to you next day.'
Aubrey smiled. 'Father'll live another twenty years, old man. Will there be any England then, or any law, or any estates to leave?'
The twins looked at him in amazement. Again he recovered himself quickly.
'I only meant that, in times like these, it's no good planning anything twenty years ahead. We've got to win the war, haven't we?—that's the first thing. Well, now, I must go and clean up. Who's here?'
'Alice and Margaret,' said Pamela. 'And father's new secretary.'
'You never told me about him,' said Aubrey indifferently, as he rose.