felt
himself growing hot and awkward. The old self-consciousness had returned
and with it two warts on his finger and an intermittent spot on his
chin. Also a down was visible on his face that somehow blunted his
profile and made him more prone than ever to deprecate the habit of
admiring oneself in a looking-glass. He felt impelled to untie Stella's
violet bows whenever he caught her posing before the mirror, and as the
holidays advanced he and she grew less and less well matched. The old
worrying speculation about his father returned together with a wish that
his mother would not dress in such gay colours. Michael admired her
slimness and tallness, but he wished that men would not turn round and
stare at her as she passed them. He used to stare back at the men with a
set frowning face and try to impress them with his distaste for their
manners; but day by day he grew more miserable about his mother, and
would often seek to dissuade her from what he considered a too
conspicuous hat or vivid ribbon. She used to laugh and tell him that he
was a regular old 'provincial.' The opportunity for perfect confidence
between Michael and his mother seemed to have slipped by, and he found
it impossible now to make her talk about his father. To be sure, she no
longer tried to wave aside his enquiries; but she did worse by answering
'yes' or 'no' to his questions according to her mood, never seeming to
care whether she contradicted a previous statement or not.

Once, Michael asked straight out whether his father was in prison and he
was relieved when his mother rippled with laughter and told him he was a
stupid boy. At the same time, since he had been positively assured his
father was dead, Michael felt that laughter, however convincing it were,
scarcely became a widow.

"I cannot think what has happened to you, Michael. You were perfectly
charming all last term and never seemed to have a moment on your hands.
Now you hang about the house on these lovely fine days and mope and
grumble. I do wish you could enjoy yourself as you used to."

"Well, I've got no friends down here," Michael declared. "What is there
to do? I'm sick of the band, and the niggers are rotten, and Stella
always wants to hang about on the pier so that people can stare at her.
I wish she'd go back to her glorious Germany where everything is so
wonderful."

"Why don't you read? You used to love reading," suggested Mrs. Fane.

"Oh, read!" exclaimed Michael. "Th