In the same manner he bestowed the distinctive title of St. Michael on Mr. Aston, from his likeness to a famous picture of that great saint in a stained glass window he had seen, and it also was generally adopted. No one made any further attempt to explain his introduction into the family, or the general history of that family. He was just "grafted in," and left to discover what he could for himself, and he certainly gathered some fragmentary disconnected facts together. "What is a Secletary?" demanded Christopher one day from the hearth-rug, where he lay turning over old volumes of the _Illustrated London News_. "A Secretary, I suppose you mean. A Secretary is a man who writes letters for someone else." "Who does St. Michael write letters for?" "He used to write letters for the Queen, or rather on the Queen's business. What book have you got there?" Christopher explained. "There is a picture of him. Only he hasn't got grey hair: and underneath Perma n-e-n-t, Permanent Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs. What does it mean, Caesar?" Caesar, otherwise Aymer, considered a moment. "Permanent means lasting, going on. You ought to know that, Christopher." "But he isn't going on." "He could have done so." "Why didn't he? Didn't he like it?" "Yes, very much. He was trained for that kind of thing." "Did he get tired of writing letters, then?" "No." Aymer was apt to become monosyllabic when a certain train of thought was forced on him. Also a short deep line of frown appeared under the white scar: but Christopher had not yet learnt to pay full heed to these signs: also he had a predilection for getting at the root of any matter he had once begun to investigate, so he began again: "Why didn't he go on being permanent, then?" "He thought he had something else he ought to do." "Was the Queen angry?" "I don't know." "What was it?" Aymer cut the leaves of the book he was trying to read rather viciously. "Taking care of me," he said shortly. Christopher got up on his knees and stared. "Hadn't you got Vespasian then?" "Good heavens, Christopher, are you a walking inquisition? My father gave up his appointment--if you must know, because of my----" he stopped, and went on doggedly, "of my accident. I wasn't particularly happy when I found I had to stay on a sofa all the rest of my life, and he had to teach me not to make an idiot of myself. Now you know all about it and need not bother anyone else with questions." Christopher thought he knew very little about it, but he had learnt what he set out to know and was moreover now aware that the subject was distasteful to Aymer, so he politely changed it. "Robert's brother has got some very nice guinea-pigs," he said thoughtfully. "Who is Robert?" "Robert is the under footman. I forgot you don't know him." Christopher recollected with momentary embarrassment Aymer's inaccessibility to the general domestic staff.