Part 53 (2/2)

Caesar had issued invitations to a family tea in his room in honour of Christopher's achievement, as was a time-honoured custom when any of the members of the family distinguished themselves in work or play.

Christopher served tea, as it was Caesar's party, and it was not until he gave Patricia her cup that he recollected she had not crossed his path since that morning in the rain.

”Where have you hidden yourself?” he demanded severely.

”You said I could not hold my tongue, so I determined I'd prove you false,” was her flippant rejoinder.

”At the cost of self-immolation. I think it proves my point.”

”I appeal to Caesar.” She got up and took a chair close to the sofa.

”Caesar, I wish you'd keep that boy of yours in order. He is always so convinced he is in the right that he is unbearable.”

”Allow him lat.i.tude to-day. He'll meet opposition enough when he tries to foist this putty-clay of his on the world. By the way, what are you going to call it, Christopher?”

Everyone stopped talking and regarded the Discoverer with critical anxiety. He looked slightly embarra.s.sed and offered no suggestion, and it was Constantia who insisted airily that they should all propose names and he should choose from the offered selection.

Christopher was made to take a chair in the midst of the circle and to demonstrate in plain terms the actual substances of which the ”Road-stuff,” as he inelegantly termed it, was made.

The younger members of the family called pathetically for some short, ready name that would not tax pen or tongue. After a long silence Nevil, modestly suggested ”Hippopodharmataconitenbadistium.”

This raised a storm of protests, while Constantia's own ”Roadhesion”

received hardly better support.

Caesar flung out ”Christ.i.te” without concern, and demanded Patricia's contribution.

”Aymerite,” she ventured.

Christopher's glances wandered from one to the other. She was seated on his own particular chair close to Caesar, in whose company she felt a strange comfort and protection, a security against her own heart that could not yet be trusted to s.h.i.+eld the secret of her love.

Mr. Aston was called on in his turn and he looked at Christopher with a smile.

”I think we are all wasting our time and wits,” he said placidly.

”Christopher has his own name ready and your suggestions are superfluous.”

They clamoured for confirmation of this and Christopher had to admit it was true.

”I call it Patrimondi,” he said slowly, his eyes on Patricia, ”because it will conquer the country and the world in time.”

Which explanation was accepted more readily by the younger members of the party than by the elder.

But ”Patrimondi” it remained, and if he chose to perpetuate the claims of the future rather than the past in this business of nomenclature, it was surely his own affair. Patricia, at all events, made no objection. She had recovered her equilibrium to find the relations.h.i.+p between them was so old that it called for nothing but mute acceptance on her part: the only thing that was new was her recognition of the barrier between them, whose imaginary shadow lay so cold across her heart.

Constantia offered a refuge. Her watching eyes divined something of Patricia's unrest. She visited her that night at the period of hair-brus.h.i.+ng and found her dreaming before a dying fire.

”You get up too early,” Constantia remonstrated, ”it's a pernicious habit. If you would come and stay with me in London, I would teach you to keep rational hours.”

”Would you have me, really?” cried Patricia, sitting bolt upright, with every sense alert to seize so good an opportunity of escape.

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