she was much more than that, for
the conjured image of her was an icy pang to his heart. Then the
indifference returned, but always underneath it the chill remained.

Mrs. Fane asked if he would care to go to the Opera in the evening: and
they went to Boheme. Michael used to be wrung by the music, but he sat
unmoved to-night. Afterward, at supper, he looked at his mother as if
she were a person in a picture; he was saddened by the uselessness of
all beauty, and by the number of times he would have to undress at night
and dress again in the morning. He had no objection to life itself, but
he felt an overwhelming despair at the thought of any activity in the
conduct of it. He was sorry for the people sitting here at supper and
for their footmen waiting outside. He felt that he was spiritually
withered, because he was aware that he was surrendering to the notion of
a debased material comfort as the only condition worth achieving for a
body that remained perfectly well; grossly well, it almost seemed.

"Michael, have you been bored to-night?" his mother asked, when they had
come home and were sitting by the window in the drawing-room, while
Michael finished a cigar.

He shook his head.

"You seemed to take no interest in the opera, and you usually enjoy
Puccini, don't you? Or was it Wagner you enjoy so much?"

"I think summer in London is always tiring," he said.

She was in that rosy mist of clothes with which his earliest pictures of
her were vivid. Suddenly he began to cry.

"Dear child, what is it?" she whispered, with fluttering arms
outstretched to comfort him.

"Oh, I've finished with all that! I've finished with all that! You'll be
delighted--you mustn't be worried because I seem upset for the moment. I
found out that Lily did not care anything about me. I'm not going to
marry her or even see her again."

"Michael! My dearest boy! What is it?"

"Finished! Finished! Finished!" he sobbed.

"Nothing is finished at twenty-three," she murmured, leaning over to pet
him.

"I do hate myself for having hurt your feelings the other day."

It was as if he seized upon a justification for grief so manifest. It
seemed to him exquisitely sad that he should have wounded his mother on
account of that broken toy of a girl. Soon he could control himself
again; and he went off to bed.

Next day Michael's depression was profound because he could perceive no
reaction from himself on Lily. The sense of personal loss was