"I was just wondering whether I should give you up," he said. "The hour that you named for lunch was half-past one. And I have almost forgotten what your clock sounded like when it struck two."This also seemed to matter very little.
"Did I ask you to lunch?" he said. "I really quite forgot; I can't even remember doing it now.""But there will be lunch?" asked Francis rather anxiously.
"Of course. It'll be ready in ten minutes."Michael came and stood in front of the fire, and looked with a sudden spasm of envy on the handsome boy who lay there. If he himself had been anything like that--"I was distinctly chippy this morning," remarked Francis, "and so Ididn't so much mind waiting for lunch. I attribute it to too much beer and bacon last night at your friend's house. I enjoyed it--Imean the evening, and for that matter the bacon--at the time. It really was extremely pleasant."He yawned largely and openly.
"I had no idea you could frolic like that, Mike," he said. "It was quite a new light on your character. How did you learn to do it?
It's quite a new accomplishment."
Here again the veil was drawn. Was it last night only that Falbe had played the Variations, and that they had acted charades?
Francis proceeded in bland unconsciousness.
"I didn't know Germans could be so jolly," he continued. "As a rule I don't like Germans. When they try to be jolly they generally only succeed in being top-heavy. But, of course, your friend is half-English. Can't he play, too? And to think of your having written those ripping tunes. His sister, too--no wonder we haven't seen much of you, Mike, if that's where you've been spending your time. She's rather like the new girl at the Gaiety, but handsomer. I like big girls, don't you? Oh, I forgot, you don't like girls much, anyhow. But are you learning your mistake, Mike? You looked last night as if you were getting more sensible."Michael moved away impatiently.
"Oh, shut it, Francis," he observed.
Francis raised himself on his elbow.
"Why, what's up?" he asked. "Won't she turn a favourable eye?"Michael wheeled round savagely.
"Please remember you are talking about a lady, and not a Gaiety lady," he remarked.
This brought Francis to his feet.
"Sorry," he said. "I was only indulging in badinage until lunch was ready."Michael could not make up his mind to tell his cousin what had happened; but he was aware of having spoken more strongly than the situation, as Francis knew of it, justified.
"Let's have lunch, then," he said. "We shall be better after lunch, as one's nurse used to say. And are you coming to Ashbridge, Francis?""Yes; I've been talking to Aunt Bar about it this morning. We're both coming; the family is going to rally round you, Mike, and defend you from Uncle Robert. There's sure to be some duck shooting, too, isn't there?"This was a considerable relief to Michael.
"Oh, that's ripping," he said. "You and Aunt Barbara always make me feel that there's a good deal of amusement to be extracted from the world.""To be sure there is. Isn't that what the world is for? Lunch and amusement, and dinner and amusement. Aunt Bar told me she dined with you the other night, and had a quantity of amusement as well as an excellent dinner. She hinted--""Oh, Aunt Barbara's always hinting," said Michael.
"I know. After all, everything that isn't hints is obvious, and so there's nothing to say about it. Tell me more about the Falbes, Mike. Will they let me go there again, do you think? Was Ipopular? Don't tell me if I wasn't."
Michael smiled at this egoism that could not help being charming.
"Would you care if you weren't?" he asked.
"Very much. One naturally wants to please delightful people. And I think they are both delightful. Especially the girl; but then she starts with the tremendous advantage of being--of being a girl.
I believe you are in love with her, Mike, just as I am. It's that which makes you so grumpy. But then you never do fall in love.
It's a pity; you miss a lot of jolly trouble."Michael felt a sudden overwhelming desire to make Francis stop this maddening twaddle; also the events of the morning were beginning to take on an air of reality, and as this grew he felt the need of sympathy of some kind. Francis might not be able to give him anything that was of any use, but it would do no harm to see if his cousin's buoyant unconscious philosophy, which made life so exciting and pleasant a thing to him, would in any way help.
Besides, he must stop this light banter, which was like drawing plaster off a sore and unhealed wound.
"You're quite right," he said. "I am in love with her.
Furthermore, I asked her to marry me this morning."This certainly had an effect.
"Good Lord!" said Francis. "And do you mean to say she refused you?""She didn't accept me," said Michael. "We--we adjourned.""But why on earth didn't she take you?" asked Francis.
All Michael's old sensitiveness, his self-consciousness of his plainness, his awkwardness, his big hands, his short legs, came back to him.
"I should think you could see well enough if you look at me," he said, "without my telling you.""Oh, that silly old rot," said Francis cheerfully. "I thought you had forgotten all about it.""I almost had--in fact I quite had until this morning," said Michael. "If I had remembered it I shouldn't have asked her."He corrected himself.
"No, I don't think that's true," he said. "I should have asked her, anyhow; but I should have been prepared for her not to take me. As a matter of fact, I wasn't."Francis turned sideways to the table, throwing one leg over the other.
"That's nonsense," he said. "It doesn't matter whether a man's ugly or not.""It doesn't as long as he is not," remarked Michael grimly.
