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music which Michael made. Haven't I got a clever son, and such a
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good one?"
Sylvia was unerring. Michael had known she would be.
"Indeed, you have," she said, sitting down by her. "And Michael
mustn't hear what we say about him, must he, or he'll be getting
conceited."
Lady Ashbridge laughed.
"And that would never do, would it?" she said, still retaining
Sylvia's hand. Then a little dim ripple of compunction broke in
her mind. "Michael," she said, "we are only joking about your
getting conceited. Miss Falbe and I are only joking. And--and
won't you take off your hat, Miss Falbe, for you are not going to
hurry away, are you? You are going to pay us a long visit."
Michael had not time to remind his mother that ladies who come to
tea do not usually take their hats off, for on the word Sylvia's
hands were busy with her hatpins.
"
I'm so glad you suggested that," she said. "I always want to take
my hat off. I don't know who invented hats, but I wish he hadn't."
Lady Ashbridge looked at her masses of bright hair, and could not
help telegraphing a note of admiration, as it were, to Michael.
"Now, that's more comfortable," she said. "You look as if you
weren't going away next minute. When I like to see people, I hate
their going away. I'm afraid sometimes that Michael will go away,
but he tells me he won't. And you liked Michael's music, Miss
Falbe? Was it not clever of him to think of all that out of one
simple little tune? And he tells me you sing so nicely. Perhaps
you would sing to us when we've had tea. Oh, and here is my
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sister-in-law. Do you know her--Lady Barbara? My dear, what is
your husband's name?"
Seeing Sylvia uncovered, Lady Barbara, with a tact that was
creditable to her, but strangely unsuccessful, also began taking
off her hat. Her sister-in-law was too polite to interfere, but,
as a matter of fact, she did not take much pleasure in the notion
that Barbara was going to stay a very long time, too. She was fond
of her, but it was not Barbara whom Michael wanted. She turned her
attention to the girl again.
"My husband's away," she said, confidentially; "he is very busy
down at Ashbridge, and I daresay he won't find time to come up to
town for many weeks yet. But, you know, Michael and I do very well
without him, very well, indeed, and it would never do to take him
away from his duties--would it, Michael?"
Here was a shoal to be avoided.
"No, you mustn't think of tempting him to come up to town," said
Michael. "Give me some tea for Aunt Barbara."
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This answer entranced Lady Ashbridge; she had to nudge Michael
several times to show that she understood the brilliance of it, and
put lump after lump of sugar into Barbara's cup in her rapt
appreciation of it. But very soon she turned to Sylvia again.
"And your brother is a friend of Michael's, too, isn't he?" she
said. "Some day perhaps he will come to see me. We don't see many
people, Michael and I, for we find ourselves very well content
alone. But perhaps some day he will come and play his concert over
again to us; and then, perhaps, if you ask me, I will sing to you.
I used to sing a great deal when I was younger. Michael--where has
Michael gone?"
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Michael had just left the room to bring some cigarettes in from
next door, and Lady Ashbridge ran after him, calling him. She
found him in the hall, and brought him back triumphantly.
"Now we will all sit and talk for a long time," she said. "You one
side of me, Miss Falbe, and Michael the other. Or would you be so
kind as to sing for us? Michael will play for you, and would it
annoy you if I came and turned over the pages? It would give me a
great deal of pleasure to turn over for you, if you will just nod
each time when you are ready."
Sylvia got up.
"Why, of course," she said. "What have you got, Michael? I
haven't anything with me."
Michael found a volume of Schubert, and once again, as on the first
time he had seen her, she sang "Who is Sylvia?" while he played,
and Lady Ashbridge had her eyes fixed now on one and now on the
other of them, waiting for their nod to do her part; and then she
wanted to sing herself, and with some far-off remembrance of the
airs and graces of twenty-five years ago, she put her handkerchief
and her rings on the top of the piano, and, playing for herself,
emitted faint treble sounds which they knew to be "The Soldier's
Farewell."
Then presently her nurse came for her to lie down before dinner,
and she was inclined to be tearful and refuse to go till Michael
made it clear that it was his express and sovereign will that she
should do so. Then very audibly she whispered to him. "May I ask
her to give me a kiss?" she said. "She looks so kind, Michael, I
don't think she would mind."
Sylvia went back home with a little heartache for Michael,
wondering, if she was in his place, if her mother, instead of being
absorbed in her novels, demanded such incessant attentions, whether
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she had sufficient love in her heart to render them with the
exquisite simplicity, the tender patience that Michael showed.
Well as she knew him, greatly as she liked him, she had not
imagined that he, or indeed any man could have behaved quite like
that. There seemed no effort at all about it; he was not trying to
be patient; he had the sense of "patience's perfect work" natural
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to him; he did not seem to have to remind himself that his mother
was ill, and thus he must be gentle with her. He was gentle with
her because he was in himself gentle. And yet, though his
behaviour was no effort to him, she guessed how wearying must be
the continual strain of the situation itself. She felt that she
would get cross from mere fatigue, however excellent her intentions
might be, however willing the spirit. And no one, so she had
understood from Barbara, could take Michael's place. In his
occasional absences his mother was fretful and miserable, and day
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