people's fathers. There's no 'of course' about it."

Sam stared stolidly in front of him.

"That's just it. It's one thing to do it for someone belonging to one,
and another thing to do it for a stranger," he persisted.

"Well, that's just how I feel, only I don't make a fuss. It's Caesar's
way, and a precious good way for us."

They parted at last with no better understanding on the vexed subject,
and Christopher, once back at Aston House, sat frowning over the fire
instead of going to bed. Why all of a sudden had this question of his
amazing indebtedness to Aymer been so persistently thrust on him.
Hitherto he had accepted it with generous gratitude, without question,
had recognised no room for speculation, allowed no play to whispers of
curiosity. It was Caesar's will. Now he was suddenly aware, however he
might close his mind, others speculated; however guard his soul from
inquisitiveness, others questioned, and it angered him for Caesar's
sake. His mother had never spoken to him of the past, never opened her
lips as to the strange sacrifice she had made for her unborn child,
except once when they were hurriedly leaving London by stealth, after
the episode with Martha Sartin's rascally husband. Mrs. Hibbault had
remarked wearily: "I wonder, Jim, shall I spend my life taking you
out of the way of bad men?"

When he asked her if she had done it before she answered: "I took you
from your father." It was the only time he remembered her mentioning
that unknown father; he recollected still how her face had changed and
she had hurried her steps, as if haunted by a new suspicion.

It gave him quite unreasonable annoyance that these thoughts intruded
themselves to-night, when he wanted to give his full attention to the
wonder and glory of the discovery he had made in Constantia Wyatt's
company. That was, indeed, a matter of real moment. How had he
contrived to be blind to it so long? He had not reached the age of
twenty-one without entertaining vague theories concerning love, and
having definitely decided that it had nothing to do with the travesty
of its name which had confronted him on his wanderings. Neither taste
nor training, nor the absorbing passion for his work had left him time
or wish to explore this field which roused only an impatient contempt
when thrust on his notice. Of Love itself, as before stated, he held
vague theories: regarding it rather as a far-off event which would
meet him in future years and l