couldget a few days' leave next week."
"Next week's no use. I go to Baireuth next week."
"Baireuth? Who's Baireuth?" asked Francis.
"Oh, a man I know. His other name was Wagner, and he wrote some tunes."
Francis nodded.
"Oh, but I've heard of him," he said. "They're rather long tunes, aren'tthey? At least I found them so when I went to the opera the other night.Go on with your plans, Mike. What do you mean to do after that?"
"Go on to Munich and hear the same tunes over, again. After that I shallcome back and settle down in town and study."
"Play the piano?" asked Francis, amiably trying to enter into hiscousin's schemes.
Michael laughed.
"No doubt that will come into it," he said. "But it's rather as ifyou told somebody you were a soldier, and he said: 'Oh, is that quickmarch?'"
"So it is. Soldiering largely consists of quick march, especially whenit's more than usually hot."
"Well, I shall learn to play the piano," said Michael.
"But you play so rippingly already," said Francis cordially. "You playedall those songs the other night which you had never seen before. If youcan do that, there is nothing more you want to learn with the piano, isthere?"
"You are talking rather as father will talk," observed Michael.
"Am I? Well, I seem to be talking sense."
"You weren't doing what you seemed, then. I've got absolutely everythingto learn about the piano."
Francis rose.
"Then it is clear I don't understand anything about it," he said. "Nor,I suppose, does Uncle Robert. But, really, I rather envy you, Mike.Anyhow, you want to do and be something so much that you are gaily goingto face unpleasantnesses with Uncle Robert about it. Now, I wouldn'tface unpleasantnesses with anybody about anything I wanted to do, and Isuppose the reason must be that I don't want to do anything enough."
"The malady of not wanting," quoted Michael.
"Yes, I've got that malady. The ordinary things that one naturally doesare all so pleasant, and take all the time there is, that I don't wantanything particular, especially now that you've been such a brick--"
"Stop it," said Michael.
"Right; I got it in rather cleverly. I was saying that it must be rathernice to want a thing so much that you'll go through a lot to get it.Most fellows aren't like that."
"A good many fellows are jelly-fish," observed Michael.
"I suppose so. I'm one, you know. I drift and float. But I don't think Isting. What are you doing to-night, by the way?"
"Playing the piano, I hope. Why?"
"Only that two fellows are dining with me, and I thought perhaps youwould come. Aunt Barbara sent me the ticket for a box at the Gaiety,too, and we might look in there. Then there's a dance somewhere."
"Thanks very much, but I think I won't," said Michael. "I'm ratherlooking forward to an evening alone."
"And that's an odd thing to look forward to," remarked Francis.
"Not when you want to play the piano. I shall have a chop here at eight,and probably thump away till midnight."
Francis looked round for his hat and stick.
"I must go," he said. "I ought to have gone long ago, but I didn't wantto. The malady came in again. Most of the world have got it, you know,Michael."
Michael rose and stood by his tall cousin.
"I think we English have got it," he said. "At least, the English youand I know have got it. But I don't believe the Germans, for instance,have. They're in deadly earnest about all sorts of things--music amongthem, which is the point that concerns me. The music of the world isGerman, you know!"
Francis demurred to this.
"Oh, I don't think so," he said. "This thing at the Gaiety is ripping, Ibelieve. Do come and see."
Michael resisted this chance of revising his opinion about the Germanorigin of music, and Francis drifted out into Piccadilly. It was alreadygetting on for seven o'clock, and the roadway and pavements were full ofpeople who seemed rather to contradict Michael's theory that the nationgenerally suffered from the malady of not wanting, so eagerly andnumerously were they on the quest for amusement. Already the street wasa mass of taxicabs and private motors containing, each one of them, menand women in evening dress, hurrying out to dine before the theatreor the opera. Bright, eager faces peered out, with sheen of silk andglitter of gems; they all seemed alert and prosperous and keen for thedaily hours of evening entertainment. A crowd similar in spirit pervadedthe pavements, white-shirted men with coat on arm stepped in and outof swinging club doors and the example set by the leisured class seemedcopiously copied by those whom desks and shops had made prisonersall day. The air of the whole town, swarming with the nation that issupposed to make so grave an affair of its amusements, was indescribablygay and lighthearted; the whole city seemed set on enjoying itself.The buses that boomed along were packed inside and out, and eachwas placarded with advertisement of some popular piece at theatre ormusic-hall. Inside the Green Park the grass was populous with loungingfigures, who, unable to pay for indoor entertainment, were making themost of what the coolness of sunset and grass supplied them with gratis;the newsboards of itinerant sellers contained nothing of more seriousimport than the result of cricket matches; and, as the dusk began tofall, street lamps and signs were lit, like early rising stars, so thatno hint of the gathering night should be permitted to intrude on theperpetually illuminated city. All that was sordid and sad, all that wasbusy (except on these gay errands of pleasure) was shuffled away out ofsight, so that the pleasure seekers might be excused for believing thatthere was nothing in the world that could demand their attention exceptthe need of amusing themselves successfully. The workers toiled in orderthat when the working day was over the fruits of their labour mightyield a harvest of a few hours' enjoyment; silkworms had spun so thatfrom carriage windows might glimmer the wrappings made from theircocoons; divers had been imperilled in deep seas so that the pearls theyhad won might embellish the necks of these fair wearers.
To Francis this all seemed very natural and proper, part of therecognised order of things that made up the series of sensations knownto him as life. He did not, as he had said, very particularly careabout anything, and it was undoubtedly true that there was no motiveor conscious purpose in his life for which he would voluntarily haveundergone any important stress of discomfort or annoyance. It was truethat in pursuance of his profession there was a certain amount of "quickmarching" and drill to be done in the heat, but that was incidental tothe fact that he was in the Guards, and more than compensated for by thepleasures that were also naturally incidental to it. He would have beenquite unable to think of anything that he would sooner do than whathe did; and he had sufficient of the ingrained human tendency to dosomething of the sort, which was a matter of routine rather than effort,than have nothing whatever, except the gratification of momentarywhims, to fill his day. Besides, it was one of the conventions or evenconditions of life that every boy on leaving school "did" something fora certain number of years. Some went into business in order to acquirethe wealth that should procure them leisure; some, like himself, becamesoldiers or sailors, not because they liked guns and ships, but becauseto boys of a certain class these professions supplied honourableemployment and a pleasant time. Without being in any way slack in hisregimental duties, he performed them as many others did, without thesmallest grain of passion, and without any imaginative forecast as towhat fruit, if any, there might be to these hours spent in drill anddiscipline. He was but one of a very large number who do their workwithout seriously bothering their heads about its possible meaning orapplication. His particular job gave a young man a pleasant positionand an easy path to general popularity, given that he was willing to besociable and amused. He was extremely ready to be both the one and theother, and there his philosophy of life stopped.
And, indeed, it seemed on this hot July evening that the streets werepopulated by philosophers like unto himself. Never had England generallybeen more prospero
us, more secure, more comfortable. The heavens ofinternational politics were as serene as the evening sky; not yet wasthe storm-cloud that hung over Ireland bigger than a man's hand; east,west, north and south there brooded the peace of the close of a halcyonday, and the amazing doings of the Suffragettes but added a slightincentive to the perusal of the morning paper. The arts flourished,harvests prospered; the world like a newly-wound clock seemed to be infor a spell of serene and orderly ticking, with an occasional chime justto show how the hours were passing.
London was an extraordinarily pleasant place, people were friendly,amusements