the Atlantic. Will he gradually begin to perceive us again, like
objects looming through a fog, or shall we come into view suddenly, as
if going round a corner? And you are just as funny, my dear, with your
long face, and air of depressed determination. Why be heavy, Michael? So
many people are heavy, and none of them can tell you why."

It was impossible not to feel the unfreezing effect of this. Michael
thawed to it, as he would have thawed to Francis.

"Perhaps they can't help it, Aunt Barbara," he said. "At least, I know I
can't. I really wish I could learn how to. I--I don't see the funny side
of things till it is pointed out. I thought lunch a sort of hell, you
know. Of course, it was funny, his appearing not to see either of
us. But it stands for more than that; it stands for his complete
misunderstanding of me."

Aunt Barbara had the sense to see that the real Michael was speaking.
When people were being unreal, when they were pompous or adopting
attitudes, she could attend to nothing but their absurdity, which
engrossed her altogether. But she never laughed at real things; real
things were not funny, but were facts.

"He quite misunderstands," went on Michael, with the eagerness with
which the shy welcome comprehension. "He thinks I can make my mind
like his if I choose; and if I don't choose, or rather can't choose, he
thinks that his wishes, his authority, should be sufficient to make
me act as if it was. Well, I won't do that. He may go on,"--and that
pleasant smile lit up Michael's plain face--"he may go on being unaware
of my presence as long as he pleases. I am very sorry it should be so,
but I can't help it. And the worst of it is, that opposition of that
sort--his sort--makes me more determined than ever."

Aunt Barbara nodded.

"And your friends?" she asked. "What will they think?"

Michael looked at her quite simply and directly.

"Friends?" he said. "I haven't got any."

"Ah, my dear, that's nonsense!" she said.

"I wish it was. Oh, Francis is a friend, I know. He thinks me an odd
old thing, but he likes me. Other people don't. And I can't see why they
should. I'm sure it's my fault. It's because I'm heavy. You said I was,
yourself."

"Then I was a great ass," remarked Aunt Barbara. "You wouldn't be heavy
with people who understood you. You aren't heavy with me, for instance;
but, my dear, lead isn't in it when you are with your father."

"But what am I to do, if I'm like that?" asked t