mson fez crowning her dark hair.

July was nearing its end; the holidays were in sight; and still Michael
had got no farther with his ambitions; still at the last moment he would
pass on and neglect some perfect opportunity for speech. He used to rail
at his cowardice, and repeat to himself all his academic knowledge of
frail womanhood. He even took the trouble to consult the Ars Amatoria,
and was so much impressed by Ovid's prescription for behaviour at a
circus that he determined to follow his advice. To put his theory into
practice, Michael selected a booth where seals performed for humanity at
sixpence a head. But all his resolutions ended in sitting mildly amused
by the entertainment in a condition of absolute decorum.

School broke up with the usual explosion of self-congratulatory rhetoric
from which Michael, owing to his Exhibition ticket, failed to emerge
with any calf-bound souvenir of intellectual achievement. He minded this
less than his own pusillanimous behaviour on the brink of experience. It
made him desperate to think that in two days he would be at Basingstead
with his mother and Alan and Mrs. Ross, utterly remote even from the
pretence of temptation.

"Dearest Michael, you really must get your things together,"
expostulated Mrs. Fane, when he announced his intention of going round
to the Exhibition as usual on the night before they were to leave town.

"Well, mother, I can pack when I come in, and I do want to get all I can
out of this 'season.' You see it will be absolutely wasted for August
and half September."

"Michael," said Mrs. Fane suddenly, "you're not keeping anything from
me?"

"Good gracious, no. What makes you ask?" Michael demanded, blushing.

"I was afraid that perhaps some horrid girl might have got hold of you,"
said Mrs. Fane.

"Why, would you mind very much?" asked Michael, with a curious
hopefulness that his mother would pursue the subject, as if by so doing
she would give him an opportunity of regarding himself and his behaviour
objectively.

"I don't know that I should mind very much," said Mrs. Fane, "if I
thought you were quite certain not to do anything foolish." Then she
seemed to correct the laxity of her point of view, and substituted,
"anything that you might regret."

"What could I regret?" asked Michael, seeking to drive his mother on to
the rocks of frankness.

"Surely you know what better than I can tell you. Don't you?" The note
of interrogation caught t