important, don't think about yourself.If I thought about myself I should consider how old and fat and uglyI am. I'm not ugly, really; you needn't be foolish and tell me so. Ishould spoil my life by trying to be young, and only eating devilledcodfish and drinking hot plum-juice, or whatever is the accepted remedyfor what we call obesity. We're all odd old things, as you say. We canonly get away from that depressing fact by doing something, and notthinking about ourselves. We can all try not to be egoists. Egoism isthe really heavy quality in the world."
She paused a moment in this inspired discourse and whistled to Og,who had stretched his weary limbs across a bed of particularly finegeraniums.
"There!" she said, pointing, "if your dog had done that, you would besubmerged in depression at the thought of how vexed your father wouldbe. That would be because you are thinking of the effect on yourself. Asit's my dog that has done it--dear me, they do look squashed now he hasgot up--you don't really mind about your father's vexation, because youwon't have to think about yourself. That is wise of you; if you were alittle wiser still, you would picture to yourself how ridiculous I shalllook apologising for Og. Kindly kick him, Michael; he will understand.Naughty! And as for your not having any friends, that would beexceedingly sad, if you had gone the right way to get them and failed.But you haven't. You haven't even gone among the people who could beyour friends. Your friends, broadly speaking, must like the same sort ofthings as you. There must be a common basis. You can't even argue withsomebody, or disagree with somebody unless you have a common ground tostart from. If I say that black is white, and you think it is blue, wecan't get on. It leads nowhere. And, finally--"
She turned round and faced him directly.
"Finally, don't be so cross, my dear," she said.
"But am I?" asked he.
"Yes. You don't know it, or else probably, since you are a very decentfellow, you wouldn't be. You expect not to be liked, and that is crossof you. A good-humoured person expects to be liked, and almost alwaysis. You expect not to be understood, and that's dreadfully cross. Youthink your father doesn't understand you; no more he does, but don't goon thinking about it. You think it is a great bore to be your father'sonly son, and wish Francis was instead. That's cross; you may think it'sfine, but it isn't, and it is also ungrateful. You can have great fun ifyou will only be good-tempered!"
"How did you know that--about Francis, I mean?" asked Michael.
"Does it happen to be true? Of course it does. Every cross young manwishes he was somebody else."
"No, not quite that," began Michael.
"Don't interrupt. It is sufficiently accurate. And you think aboutyour appearance, my dear. It will do quite well. You might have had twonoses, or only one eye, whereas you have two rather jolly ones. And dotry to see the joke in other people, Michael. You didn't see the jokein your interview last night with your father. It must have beenexcruciatingly funny. I don't say it wasn't sad and serious as well. Butit was funny too; there were points."
Michael shook his head.
"I didn't see them," he said.
"But I should have, and I should have been right. All dignity is funny,simply because it is sham. When dignity is real, you don't know it'sdignity. But your father knew he was being dignified, and you knew youwere being dignified. My dear, what a pair of you!"
Michael frowned.
"But is nothing serious, then?" he asked. "Surely it was serious enoughlast night. There was I in rank rebellion to my father, and it vexed himhorribly; it did more, it grieved him."
She laid her hand on Michael's knee.
"As if I didn't know that!" she said. "We're all sorry for that, thoughI should have been much sorrier if you had given in and ceased to vexhim. But there it is! Accept that, and then, my dear, swiftly applyyourself to perceive the humour of it. And now, about your plans!"
"I shall go to Baireuth on Wednesday, and then on to Munich," beganMichael.
"That, of course. Perhaps you may find the humour of a Channel crossing.I look for it in vain. Yet I don't know. . . . The man who puts on ayachting-cap, and asks if there's a bit of a sea on. It proves to be thecase, and he is excessively unwell. I must look out for him next time Icross. And then?"
"Then I shall settle in town and study. Oh, here's my father cominghome."
Lord Ashbridge approached down the terrace. He stopped for a moment atthe desecrated geranium bed, saw the two sitting together, and turned atright angles and went into the house. Almost immediately a footmancame out with a long dog-lead and advanced hesitatingly to Og. Og wasconvinced that he had come to play with him, and crouched and growledand retreated and advanced with engaging affability. Out of the windowsof the library looked Lord Ashbridge's baleful face. . . . AuntBarbara swayed out of her chair, and laid a trembling hand on Michael'sshoulder.
"I shall go and apologise for Og," she said. "I shall do it quitesincerely, my dear. But there are points."
CHAPTER IV
Michael practised a certain mature and rather elderly precision in theordinary affairs of daily life. His habits were almost unduly tidy andpunctual; he answered letters by return of post, he never mislaid thingsnor tore up documents which he particularly desired should be preserved;he kept his gold in a purse and his change in a trousers-pocket, and inmatters of travelling he always arrived at stations with plenty of timeto spare, and had such creature comforts as he desired for his journeyin a neat Gladstone bag above his head. He never travelled first-class,for the very simple and adequate reason that, though very well off,he preferred to spend his money in ways that were more productive ofusefulness or pleasure; and thus, when he took his place in the cornerof a second-class compartment of the Dover-Ostend express on theWednesday morning following, he was the only occupant of it.
Probably he had never felt so fully at liberty, nor enjoyed a keenerzest for life and the future. For the first time he had asserted his ownindisputable right to stand on his own feet, and though he was genuinelysorry for his father's chagrin at not being able to tuck him up inthe family coach, his own sense of independence could not but wave itsbanners. There had been a second interview, no less fruitless than thefirst, and Lord Ashbridge had told him that when next his presence wasdesired at home, he would be informed of the fact. His mother had criedin a mild, trickling fashion, but it was quite obvious that in herheart of hearts she was more concerned with a bilious attack of peculiarintensity that had assailed Petsy. She wished Michael would not be sodisobedient and vex his father, but she was quite sure that beforelong some formula, in diplomatic phrase, would be found on whichreconciliation could be based; whereas it was highly uncertain whetherany formula could be found that would produce the desired effect onPetsy, whose illness she attributed to the shock of Og's sudden anddisconcerting appearance on Saturday, when all Petsy's nervous forcewas required to digest the copious cream. Consequently, though she threwreproachful glances at Michael, those directed at Barbara, who was thecause of the acuter tragedy, were pointed with more penetrating blame.Indeed, it is questionable whether Lady Ashbridge would have cried atall over Michael's affairs had not Petsy's also been in so lamentableand critical a state.
Just as the train began to move out of the station a young man rushedacross the platform, eluded the embrace of the guard who attempted tostop him with amazing agility, and jumped into Michael's compartment.He slammed the door after him, and leaned out, apparently looking forsomeone, whom he soon saw.
"Just caught it, Sylvia," he shouted. "Send on my luggage, will you?It's in the taxi still, I think, and I haven't paid the man. Good-bye,darling."
He waved to her till the curving line took the platform out of sight,and then sat down with a laugh, and eyes of friendly interest forMichael.
"Narrow squeak, wasn't it?" he said gleefully. "I thought the guard hadcollared me. And I should have missed Parsifal."
Michael had recognised him at once as he rushed across the platform; hisshouting to Sylvia had but confirmed the recognition; and here on theday of his entering into his
new kingdom of liberty was one of itscitizens almost thrown into his arms. But for the moment his oldinvincible habit of shyness and sensitiveness forbade any responsivelightness of welcome, and he was merely formal, merely courteous.
"And all your luggage left behind," he said. "Won't you be dreadfullyuncomfortable?"
"Uncomfortable? Why?" asked Falbe. "I shall buy a handkerchief and acollar every day, and a shirt and a pair of socks every other day tillit arrives."
Michael felt a sudden, daring impulse. He remembered Aunt Barbara'ssalutary remarks about crossness being the equivalent of thinking