The smallness of the staff left in charge at Aston House gave Christopher an excuse for dispensing with the services of Burton, the footman, and the meal was a great success. It never occurred to the host to think these good kind friends of his in any way out of place here. His sense of humour was quite unruffled, nay, he was even genuinely pleased to see the good, ample Martha, the strings of her black bonnet untied, her face wreathed in smiles, vigorously clearing out a tart dish, and Jessie's homely features lit up with passive enjoyment, her brown eyes shining beneath the ridiculous curls. They had chosen the Hippodrome for their afternoon's amusement, and there was plenty of time after lunch to show them some of the glories of Aston House. Christopher led them through the shrouded rooms, but the treasures he displayed to view were not so much those of artistic merit as those which had pleased his own boyish fancy years before. Passing down a corridor he stopped by a remote closed door. Jessie was examining some Wedgewood plaques a little way off. Christopher looked at Mrs. Sartin with a queer little smile. "When I was a kid," he said rather shamefacedly, "I used to play that my mother was going about the place with me. You see there were no women-folk, and the pretence seemed to help things. I used to make it seem more real by always starting here, and pretending that was her room. It was the only door that was always locked." "Lor', what a queer idea!" ejaculated Mrs. Sartin, gazing suspiciously at the closed door. Christopher laughed. "Oh, I've been in since; there's nothing there but newspapers, quite a dull little room. But it was an odd fancy. My feeling was so strong I used to take her round and show her things I've shown you to-day. I always wanted to show them to someone instead of the real treasures, which are rather dull, you know." Mrs. Sartin said again it was very queer. She followed Jessie and Christopher reluctantly with backward glances towards the door, full of puzzled suspicion. When they were again in the hall it was time to start for the Hippodrome, and there was a great deal of patting of hats and tying of strings before a Venetian mirror. But Aymer Aston's room, with its world-famed pictures, was unvisited. When the Hippodrome performance was over and he had seen his guests safely homeward, Christopher called on Constantia Wyatt and found her in. She seemed in no wise surprised to see him, but asked him promptly when he was going down to Marden. "I don't know," he said slowly, his eyes on the fire, "I don't think I shall go back yet." Constantia rang the bell and told the footman she was not at home, and then drew her chair up to the fire and made Christopher some fresh tea. "Is London proving so very attractive?" she inquired. "I shan't stay in town. I think I shall go abroad again. I want to think." "Dear, dear. Is Marden such a bad atmosphere for the intelligence?"