ittle now
that I can do to secure it. I must put that into other hands. You are
twenty-five, Michael; you are old enough to get married. All Combers
marry when they are twenty-five, don't they? Isn't there some girl you
would like to be yours? But you must love her, you know, you must want
her, you mustn't be able to do without her. It won't do to marry just
because you are twenty-five."

It would no more have entered into Michael's head this morning to tell
to his mother about Sylvia than to have discussed counterpoint with her.
But then this morning he had not been really aware that he had a mother.
But to tell her now was not unthinkable, but inevitable.

"Yes, there is a girl whom I can't do without," he said.

Lady Ashbridge's face lit up.

"Ah, tell me about her--tell me about her," she said. "You want her, you
can't do without her; that is the right wife for you."

Michael caught at his mother's hand as it stroked his sleeve.

"But she is not sure that she can do with me," he said.

Her face was not dimmed at this.

"Oh, you may be sure she doesn't know her own mind," she said. "Girls so
often don't. You must not be down-hearted about it. Who is she? Tell me
about her."

"She's the sister of my great friend, Hermann Falbe," he said, "who
teaches me music."

This time the gladness faded from her.

"Oh, my dear, it will vex your father again," she said, "that you should
want to marry the sister of a music-teacher. It will never do to vex him
again. Is she not a lady?"

Michael laughed.

"But certainly she is," he said. "Her father was German, her mother was
a Tracy, just as well-born as you or I."

"How odd, then, that her brother should have taken to giving music
lessons. That does not sound good. Perhaps they are poor, and certainly
there is no disgrace in being poor. And what is her name?"

"Sylvia," said Michael. "You have probably heard of her; she is the Miss
Falbe who made such a sensation in London last season by her singing."

The old outlook, the old traditions were beginning to come to the
surface again in poor Lady Ashbridge's mind.

"Oh, my dear!" she said. "A singer! That would vex your father terribly.
Fancy the daughter of a Miss Tracy becoming a singer. And yet you want
her--that seems to me to matter most of all."

Then came a step at the door; it opened an inch or two, and Michael
heard his father's voice.

"Is your mother with you, Michael?" he asked.

At that Lady Ashb