somebody I know, it is a differentmatter."
Michael turned to Sylvia.
"I want to ask your leave for something I have already done," he said.
"And if I don't give it you?"
"Then I shan't tell you what it is."
Sylvia looked at him with her candid friendly eyes. Her brother alwaystold her that she never looked at anybody except her friends; if she wasengaged in conversation with a man she did not like, she looked at hisshirt-stud or at a point slightly above his head.
"Then, of course, I give in," she said. "I must give you leave ifotherwise I shan't know what you have done. But it's a mean trick. Tellme at once."
"I've dedicated the Variations to you," he said.
Sylvia flushed with pleasure.
"Oh, but that's absolutely darling of you," she said. "Have you, really?Do you mean it?"
"If you'll allow me."
"Allow you? Hermann, the Variations are mine. Isn't it too lovely?"
It was at this moment that Aunt Barbara happened to glance at Michael,and it suddenly struck her that it was a perfectly new Michael whom shelooked at. She knew and was secretly amused at the fiasco that alwaysattended the introduction of amiable young ladies to Ashbridge, and hadwarned her sister-in-law that Michael, when he chose the girl he wanted,would certainly do it on his own initiative. Now she felt sure thatMichael, though he might not be aware of it himself, was, even if he hadnot chosen, beginning to choose. There was that in his eyes whichnone of the importations to Ashbridge had ever seen there, that eagerdeferential attention, which shows that a young man is interestedbecause it is a girl he is talking to. That, she knew, had never beencharacteristic of Michael; indeed, it would not have been far from thetruth to say that the fact that he was talking to a girl was sufficientto make his countenance wear an expression of polite boredom. Then for awhile, as dinner progressed, she doubted the validity of her conclusion,for the Michael who was entertaining her to-night was wholly differentfrom the Michael she had known and liked and pitied. She felt that shedid not know this new one yet, but she was certain that she liked him,and equally sure that she did not pity him at all. He had found hisplace, he had found his work; he evidently fitted into his life, which,after all, is the surest ground of happiness, and it might be that itwas only general joy, so to speak, that kindled that pleasant fire inhis face. And then once more she went back to her first conclusion, fortalking to Michael herself she saw, as a woman so infallibly sees, thathe gave her but the most superficial attention--sufficient, indeed, toallow him to answer intelligently and laugh at the proper places, buthis mind was not in the least occupied with her. If Sylvia moved hisglance flickered across in her direction: it was she who gave him hisalertness. Aunt Barbara felt that she could have told him truthfullythat he was in love with her, and she rather thought that it would benews to him; probably he did not know it yet himself. And she wonderedwhat his father would say when he knew it.
"And then Munich," she said, violently recalling Michael's attentiontowards her. "Munich I could have borne better than Baireuth, and whenMr. Falbe asks me there I shall probably go. Your Uncle Tony was inGermany then, by the way; he went over at the invitation of the Emperorto the manoeuvres."
"Did he? The Emperor came to Munich for a day during them. He was at theopera," said Michael.
"You didn't speak to him, I suppose?" she asked.
"Yes; he sent for me, and talked a lot. In fact, he talked too much,because I didn't hear a note of the second act."
Aunt Barbara became infinitely more interested.
"Tell me all about it, Michael," she said. "What did he talk about?"
"Everything, as far as I can remember, England, Ashbridge, armies,navies, music. Hermann says he cast pearls before swine--"
"And his tone, his attitude?" she asked.
"Towards us?--towards England? Immensely friendly, and most inquisitive.I was never asked so many questions in so short a time."
Aunt Barbara suddenly turned to Falbe.
"And you?" she asked. "Were you with Michael?"
"No, Lady Barbara. I had no pearls."
"And are you naturalised English?" she asked.
"No; I am German."
She slid swiftly off the topic.
"Do you wonder I ask, with your talking English so perfectly?" she said."You should hear me talking French when we are entertaining Ambassadorsand that sort of persons. I talk it so fast that nobody can understand aword I say. That is a defensive measure, you must observe, because evenif I talked it quite slowly they would understand just as little. Butthey think it is the pace that stupefies them, and they leave me in acurious, dazed condition. And now Miss Falbe and I are going to leaveyou two. Be rather a long time, dear Michael, so that Mr. Falbe can tellyou what he thinks of me, and his sister shall tell me what she thinksof you. Afterwards you and I will tell each other, if it is not toofearful."
This did not express quite accurately Lady Barbara's intentions, for shechiefly wanted to find out what she thought of Sylvia.
"And you are great friends, you three?" she said as they settledthemselves for the prolonged absence of the two men.
Sylvia smiled; she smiled, Aunt Barbara noticed, almost entirely withher eyes, using her mouth only when it came to laughing; but her eyessmiled quite charmingly.
"That's always rather a rash thing to pronounce on," she said. "I cantell you for certain that Hermann and I are both very fond of him, butit is presumptuous for us to say that he is equally devoted to us."
"My dear, there is no call for modesty about it," said Barbara. "Betweenyou--for I imagine it is you who have done it--between you you have madea perfectly different creature of the boy. You've made him flower."
Sylvia became quite grave.
"Oh, I do hope he likes us," she said. "He is so likable himself."
Barbara nodded
"And you've had the good sense to find that out," she said. "It'sastonishing how few people knew it. But then, as I said, Michael hadn'tflowered. No one understood him, or was interested. Then he suddenlymade up his mind last summer what he wanted to do and be, andimmediately did and was it."
"I think he told Hermann," said she. "His father didn't approve, didhe?"
"Approve? My dear, if you knew my brother you would know that the onlythings he approves of are those which Michael isn't."
Sylvia spread her fine hands out to the blaze, warming them and shadingher face.
"Michael always seems to us--" she began. "Ah, I called him Michael bymistake."
"Then do it on purpose next time," remarked Barbara. "What does Michaelseem?"
"Ah, but don't let him know I called him Michael," said Sylvia in somehorror. "There is nothing so awful as to speak of people formally totheir faces, and intimately behind their backs. But Hermann is alwaystalking of him as Michael."
"And Michael always seems--"
"Oh, yes; he always seems to me to have been part of us, of Hermann andme, for years. He's THERE, if you know what I mean, and so few peopleare there. They walk about your life, and go in and out, so to speak,but Michael stops. I suppose it's because he is so natural."
Aunt Barbara had been a diplomatist long before her husband, and fearfulof appearing inquisitive about Sylvia's impression of Michael, which shereally wanted to inquire into, instantly changed the subject.
"Ah, everybody who has got definite things to do is natural," she said."It is only the idle people who have leisure to look at themselves inthe glass and pose. And I feel sure that you have definite things to doand plenty of them, my dear. What are they?"
"Oh, I sing a little," said Sylvia.
"That is the first unnatural thing you have said. I somehow feel thatyou sing a great deal."
Aunt Barbara suddenly got up.
"My dear, you are not THE Miss Falbe, are you, who drove London crazywith delight last summer. Don't tell me you are THE Miss Falbe?"
Sylvia laughed.
"Do you know, I'm afraid I must be," she said. "
Isn't it dreadful tohave to say that after your description?"
Aunt Barbara sat down again, in a sort of calm despair.
"If there are any more shocks coming for me to-night," she said, "Ithink I had better go home. I have encountered a perfectly new nephewMichael. I have dressed myself like a suburban housekeeper to meet aPoiret, so don't deny it, and having humourously told Michael I wishedto see a prima donna and a pianist, he takes me at my word and producesTHE Miss Falbe. I'm glad I knew that in time; I should infallibly haveasked you to sing, and if you had done so--you are probably