Christopher decapitated a thistle and explained briefly, "Caesar adopted me straight out of a workhouse. My mother and I were tramping from London to Southampton, and she got ill at Whitmansworth, the other side of Winchester, and died there. The Union kept me till Mr. Aston took me away. I thought everyone knew." Embarrassment and curiosity struggled for the mastery in the young aristocrat by his side. "And you really did tramp?" he ventured at length. "Yes, for a time, but we were not like that. My mother was--was a lady, educated, and all that, I think, only quite poor. She understood poor people and tramps. We used to walk with them, talk to them. They were kind." "And if Caesar hadn't adopted you?" "I should be a workhouse porter by now, perhaps," laughed Christopher lightly and then was silent. A picture of the possible or rather of the inevitable swam before his eyes; a picture of a hungry, needy soul compassed by wants, by fierce desires, with the dominant will to fulfil them and no means, and the world against him. He did not reason it out to a logical conclusion, but he saw it clearly. Max concluded the subject was not to be discussed and went on with an explanation of why Christopher had not been met in state after four years' absence. "The motor was to come for you, but it's gone wrong, and Aymer said you'd rather walk than drive, and we were not quite certain of the train. Do you really hate driving, Christopher?" "Yes, I always think the horses will run away. Aymer knows that. Is it really four years since I was here, Max?" "Yes, at Christmas. You never came down when you were in town two years ago. It was a beastly shame of you." "I'd only two months and Caesar wanted me. That was before I went to Switzerland, wasn't it? They know something about road-making there, Max, but I've learnt more in France." "And all about motors, too?" questioned Max eagerly. "Can you really drive one?" Christopher laughed. "I've won a race or two, and I've got a certificate. Perhaps it won't pass in England." "Will you teach me to drive? I just long to: but St. Michael says no--though he doesn't mind Geoffry Leverson teaching me to shoot. He's home now, you know, and comes over most days, and when Patricia won't play golf, he takes me shooting." "Patricia's taken to golf then?" "Yes. Geoffry says she's splendid, but I expect that's just to make her play up." They had turned off the highroad now and were in the fields following a path on the side of the sloping meadows. The mist that hung over the river did not reach up to them and Christopher could see the thick foliage of the woods opposite, splashed with gold and russet, heavy with moisture. The warm damp smell of autumn was in the air. He took a long breath and squared his shoulders. "It's good to be back. To think of its being four whole years." "And two since you've seen any of us. Are you going away again, Christopher?" "In the spring. There's St. Michael."