o be pleasant.

"You ought to come over to Christchurch, mother. Shall we drive over one
day?"

"Well, I'm not very fond of looking at churches," said Mrs. Fane. "But
if you want to go, let us. I always like you to do everything you want."

Michael sighed at the ingenuity of his mother's method, and changed the
subject to their fellow-guests.

"That's rather a pretty girl, don't you think?"

"Where, dear?" asked Mrs. Fane, putting up her lorgnette and staring
hard at the wife of a clergyman sitting across the room from their
table.

"No, no, mother," said Michael, beaming with pleasure at the delightful
vagueness of his mother which only distressed him when it shrouded his
own sensations. "The next table--the girl in pink."

"Yes, decidedly," said Mrs. Fane. "But dreadfully common. I can't think
why those sort of people come to nice hotels. I suppose they read about
them in railway guides."

"I don't think she's very common," said Michael.

"Well, dear, you're not quite at the best age for judging, are you?"

"Hang it, mother, I'm seventeen."

"It's terrible to think of," said Mrs. Fane. "And only such a little
while ago you were the dearest baby boy. Then Stella must be sixteen,"
she went on. "I think it's time she came back from the Continent."

"What about her first concert?"

"Oh, I must think a lot before I settle when that is to be."

"But Stella is counting on it being very soon."

"Dear children, you're both rather impetuous," said Mrs. Fane,
deprecating with the softness of her implied rebuke the quality, and in
Michael at any rate for the moment quenching all ardour.

"I wonder if it's wise to let a girl be a professional musician," she
continued. "Dear me, children are a great responsibility, especially
when one is alone."

Here was an opportunity for Michael to revive the subject of his father,
but he had now lost the cruel frankness of childhood and shrank from the
directness of the personal encounter such a topic would involve. He was
seized with one of his fits of shy sensitiveness, and he became suddenly
so deeply embarrassed that he could scarcely even bring himself to
address his mother as 'you.' He felt that he must go away by himself
until he had shaken off this uncomfortable sensation. He actually felt a
kind of immodesty in saying 'you' to his mother, as if in saying so much
he was trespassing on the forbidden confines of her individuality. It
would not endure for more than an