Nevil crossed and uncrossed his long legs, gazing abstractedly at a modern picture of mediaeval warfare. "Those helmets are fifteen years too late for that battle," he volunteered, "and the pikes are German, not French. What a rotten picture. Don't you think you could come back with me? I hate travelling alone. I always believe I shall get mislaid and be taken to the Lost Property Office. Porters are so careless." He did not look round, but continued to examine the details of the offending picture. Christopher leant over his chair and put his hands on Nevil's shoulders. "Nevil, I can't stand any more. Tell me why I am to come back." The other looked up at him with a rueful little smile, singularly like his father's. "You were not always so dense, Christopher. I hoped you wouldn't ask questions that are too difficult to answer. To begin with, neither my father nor Aymer know I've come. They think I'm in town. You see, Caesar misses you, though he wouldn't have you think so for the world, in case it added to your natural conceit, but it makes him--cross, yes, rather particularly cross and that upsets the house. I can't write at all, so I thought you had better come back. The fact is," he added with a burst of confidence, "I've promised an article on the Masterpieces of Freedom for August. I seldom promise, but I like to keep my word if I do, and it's impossible to write now. If you're enjoying yourself it's horribly selfish--but you see the importance of it, don't you?" "Yes," allowed Christopher with the ghost of a smile, "it's lamentably selfish of you, but I realise the importance. Shall we go by rail to-night?" "But Leamington?" "Will the man run away?" "My father might have been interested to see the papers." "You dear old fraud," said Christopher with an odd little catch in his voice, "do you suppose St. Michael won't see through you? Is it like you to travel this distance to see doubtful records when you won't go to London to see genuine ones? Why did not St. Michael write to me?" "Caesar would not let him." "He must be ill." "He is not, on my word, Christopher. He is just worried to the verge of distraction by your being here. It seems ridiculous, but so it is." "Why didn't you write yourself?" Nevil considered the question gravely. "Why didn't I write? Oh, I know. I only thought of it this morning and it seemed quicker to come." "Or wire?" persisted Christopher. "It would have cost such a lot to explain," he answered candidly. "I did think of that and started to send one. Then I found I had only twopence in my pocket. If I had sent anyone else to the office everyone would have known I was sending for you and Caesar would have been more annoyed than ever." "I quite see. What did Mrs. Aston say?" "I think she said you'd be sure to come."