I should like to know definitely if you
have considered the question, and if you have not, I ask you to set
about it at once."

Michael was suddenly aware that never for a moment had Sylvia been away
from his mind. Even when his mother was talking to him last night Sylvia
had sat at the back, in the inmost place, throned and secure. And now
she stepped forward. Apart from the impossibility of not acknowledging
her, he wished to do it. He wanted to wear her publicly, though she was
not his; he wanted to take his allegiance oath, though his sovereign
heeded not.

"I have considered the question," he said, "and I have quite made up my
mind whom I want to marry. She is Miss Falbe, Miss Sylvia Falbe, of whom
you may have heard as a singer. She is the sister of my music-master,
and I can certainly marry nobody else."

It was not merely defiance of the dreadful old tradition, which Lord
Ashbridge had announced in the manner of Moses stepping down from Sinai,
that prompted this appalling statement of the case; it was the joy
in the profession of his love. It had to be flung out like that. Lord
Ashbridge looked at him a moment in dead silence.

"I have not the honour of knowing Miss--Miss Falbe, is it?" he said;
"nor shall I have that honour."

Michael got up; there was that in his father's tone that stung him to
fury.

"It is very likely that you will not," he said, "since when I proposed
to her yesterday she did not accept me."

Somehow Lord Ashbridge felt that as an insult to himself. Indeed, it was
a double insult. Michael had proposed to this singer, and this singer
had not instantly clutched him. He gave his dreadful little treble
giggle.

"And I am to bind up your broken heart?" he asked.

Michael drew himself up to his full height. This was an indiscretion,
for it but made his father recognise how short he was. It brought farce
into the tragic situation.

"Oh, by no means," he said. "My heart is not going to break yet. I don't
give up hope."

Then, in a flash, he thought of his mother's pale, anxious face, her
desire that he should not vex his father.

"I am sorry," he said, "but that is the case. I wish--I wish you would
try to understand me."

"I find you incomprehensible," said Lord Ashbridge, and left the room
with his high walk and his swinging elbows.

Well, it was done now, and Michael felt that there were no new vexations
to be sprung on his father. It was bound to happen, he supposed, sooner