"Oh, mother, how can you ask?" he said.

"Then let me do it. No, my darling, don't move. Just sit still as you are, and let me just get my arms about you, and put my head on your shoulder, and hold me close like that for a moment, so that I can realise that I am not too late."

She got up, and, leaning over him, held him so for a moment, pressing her cheek close to his, and kissing him on the eyes and on the mouth.

"Ah, that is nice," she said. "It makes my loneliness fall away from me.

I am not quite alone any more. And now, if you are not tired will you let me talk to you a little more, and learn a little more about you?"

She pulled her chair again nearer him, so that sitting there she could clasp his arm.

"I want your happiness, dear," she said, "but there is so little now that I can do to secure it. I must put that into other hands. You are twenty-five, Michael; you are old enough to get married. All Combers marry when they are twenty-five, don't they? Isn't there some girl you would like to be yours? But you must love her, you know, you must want her, you mustn't be able to do without her. It won't do to marry just because you are twenty-five."

It would no more have entered into Michael's head this morning to tell to his mother about Sylvia than to have discussed counterpoint with her.

But then this morning he had not been really aware that he had a mother.

But to tell her now was not unthinkable, but inevitable.

"Yes, there is a girl whom I can't do without," he said.

Lady Ashbridge's face lit up.

"Ah, tell me about her--tell me about her," she said. "You want her, you can't do without her; that is the right wife for you."

Michael caught at his mother's hand as it stroked his sleeve.

"But she is not sure that she can do with me," he said.

Her face was not dimmed at this.

"Oh, you may be sure she doesn't know her own mind," she said. "Girls so often don't. You must not be down-hearted about it. Who is she? Tell me about her."

"She's the sister of my great friend, Hermann Falbe," he said, "who teaches me music."

This time the gladness faded from her.

"Oh, my dear, it will vex your father again," she said, "that you should want to marry the sister of a music-teacher. It will never do to vex him again. Is she not a lady?"

Michael laughed.

"But certainly she is," he said. "Her father was German, her mother was a Tracy, just as well-born as you or I."

"How odd, then, that her brother should have taken to giving music lessons. That does not sound good. Perhaps they are poor, and certainly there is no disgrace in being poor. And what is her name?"

"Sylvia," said Michael. "You have probably heard of her; she is the Miss Falbe who made such a sensation in London last season by her singing."

The old outlook, the old traditions were beginning to come to the surface again in poor Lady Ashbridge's mind.

"Oh, my dear!" she said. "A singer! That would vex your father terribly.

Fancy the daughter of a Miss Tracy becoming a singer. And yet you want her--that seems to me to matter most of all."

Then came a step at the door; it opened an inch or two, and Michael heard his father's voice.

"Is your mother with you, Michael?" he asked.

At that Lady Ashbridge got up. For one second she clung to her son, and then, disengaging herself, froze up like the sudden congealment of a spring.

"Yes, Robert," she said. "I was having a little talk to Michael."

"May I come in?"

"It's our secret," she whispered to Michael.

"Yes, come in, father," he said.

Lord Ashbridge stood towering in the doorway.

"Come, my dear," he said, not unkindly, "it's time for you to go to bed."

She had become the mask of herself again.

"Yes, Robert," she said. "I suppose it must be late. I will come. Oh, there's Petsy. Will you ring, Michael? then Fedden will come and take him to bed. He sleeps with Fedden."

CHAPTER IX

Michael, in desperate conversational efforts next morning at breakfast, mentioned the fact that the German Emperor had engaged him in a substantial talk at Munich, and had recommended him to pa.s.s the winter at Berlin. It was immediately obvious that he rose in his father's estimation, for, though no doubt primarily the fact that Michael was his son was the cause of this interest, it gave Michael a sort of testimonial also to his respectability. If the Emperor had thought that his taking up a musical career was indelibly disgraceful--as Lord Ashbridge himself had done--he would certainly not have made himself so agreeable. On anyone of Lord Ashbridge's essential and deep-rooted sn.o.bbishness this could not fail to make a certain effect; his chilly politeness to Michael sensibly thawed; you might almost have detected a certain cordiality in his desire to learn as much as possible of this gratifying occurrence.

"And you mean to go to Berlin?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to," said Michael; "my master is in London."

"I should be inclined to reconsider that, Michael," said the father.

"The Emperor knows what he is talking about on the subject of music."

Lady Ashbridge looked up from the breakfast she was giving Petsy II.

His dietary was rather less rich than that of the defunct, and she was afraid sometimes that his food was not nourishing enough.

"I remember the concert we had here," she said. "We had the 'Song to Aegir' twice."

Lord Ashbridge gave her a quick glance. Michael felt he would not have noticed it the evening before.

"Your memory is very good, my dear," he said with encouragement.

"And then we had a torchlight procession," she remarked.

"Quite so. You remember it perfectly. And about his visit here, Michael.

Did he talk about that?"

"Yes, very warmly; also about our international relations."