re was indeed nothing in his appearance to suggest a
cripple or an invalid.

Nevertheless, Aymer Aston, aged thirty-five, the best polo-player, the
best fencer, the best athlete of his day at College, possessing more
than his share of the vigour of youth and glory of life, had, for over
ten years, never moved without help from the sofa on which he lay, and
the strange scar and a certain weakness in the left hand and arm were
the only visible signs of the catastrophe that had broken his life.

A thin, angular man entered, and crossed the room with an apologetic
cough.

"Is that you, Vespasian?" demanded his master without moving. "Have
they come?"

"No, sir, but there is a message from the House. I believe Mr. Aston
is wanted particularly."

"What a nuisance. Why can't they let him alone? He might as well be in
office."

The man, without asking permission, rearranged his master's cushions
with a practised hand.

"The young gentleman had better have some supper upstairs, sir, as
it's so late," he suggested. "I'll see to it myself."

"Send him in to me directly they come, Vespasian."

"Yes, sir."

He withdrew as quietly as he had entered and Aymer continued to look
out at the dark, and think over the change he, of his own will, was
about to make in his monotonous existence. He was so lost in thought
he did not hear the door open again or realise the "change" was
actually an accomplished fact till a half-frightened gasp of "Oh!"
caught his ear. He turned as well as he could, unaided.

"Is that you, Christopher?"

The voice was so singularly like Mr. Aston's that Christopher felt
reassured. The dim vastness of the room had frightened him, also he
had thought it empty.

"Come over here to me," said Aymer, holding out his hand, "I can't
come to you."

Christopher nervously advanced. The brightness of the corridor outside
left his eyes confused in this dim light. Aymer suddenly remembered
this and turned on a switch. The vague shadowy space was flooded with
soft radiance. It was like magic to the small boy.

He was first aware of a gorgeous glint of colouring in a rug flung
across the sofa, and then of a man lying on a pile of dull-tinted
pillows, a man with red hair and blue eyes, watching him eagerly.

Children as a rule are not susceptible to physical beauty, turning
with undeviating instinct to the inner soul of things, with a fine
disregard for externals, but Christopher, in this, was rather
abnormal