Michael

in telephoning to Sylvia when they got back totown, asking her if she could come and have tea with his mother, for thegentle, affectionate mood of the morning still lasted, and her eagernessto see Sylvia was only equalled by her eagerness to be agreeable to her.He was greedy, whenever it could be done, to secure a pleasure for hismother, and this one seemed in her present mood a perfectly safe one.Added to that impulse, in itself sufficient, there was his own longingto see her again, that thirst that never left him, and soon after theyhad got back to Curzon Street Sylvia was with them, and, as before,in preparation for a long visit, she had taken off her hat. To-day shedivested herself of it without any suggestion on Lady Ashbridge's part,and this immensely pleased her.

  "Look, Michael," she said. "Miss Falbe means to stop a long time. Thatis sweet of her, is it not? She is not in such a hurry to get awaytoday. Sugar, Miss Falbe? Yes, I remember you take sugar and milk, butno cream. Well, I do think this is nice!"

  Sylvia had seen neither mother nor son for a couple of weeks, and hereyes coming fresh to them noticed much change in them both. In LadyAshbridge this change, though marked, was indefinable enough: she seemedto the girl to have somehow gone much further off than she had beenbefore; she had faded, become indistinct. It was evident that she found,except when she was talking to Michael, a far greater difficulty inexpressing herself, the channels of communication, as it were, weregetting choked. . . . With Michael, the change was easily stated, helooked terribly tired, and it was evident that the strain of these weekswas telling heavily on him. And yet, as Sylvia noticed with a suddensense of personal pride in him, not one jot of his patient tendernessfor his mother was abated. Tired as he was, nervous, on edge, wheneverhe dealt with her, either talking to her, or watching for any littleattention she might need, his face was alert with love. But she noticedthat when the footman brought in tea, and in arranging the cups let aspoon slip jangling from its saucer, Michael jumped as if a bomb hadgone off, and under his breath said to the man, "You clumsy fool!"Little as the incident was, she, knowing Michael's courtesy andpoliteness, found it significant, as bearing on the evidence of histired face. Then, next moment his mother said something to him, andinstantly his love transformed and irradiated it.

  To-day, more than ever before, Lady Ashbridge seemed to exist onlythrough him. As Sylvia knew, she had been for the last few weeksconstantly disagreeable to him; but she wondered whether this exacting,meticulous affection was not harder to bear. Yet Michael, in spite ofthe nervous strain which now showed itself so clearly, seemed to find nodifficulty at all in responding to it. It might have worn his nerves totatters, but the tenderness and love of him passed unhampered throughthe frayed communications, for it was he himself who was brought intoplay. It was of that Michael, now more and more triumphantly revealed,that Sylvia felt so proud, as if he had been a possession, anachievement wholly personal to her. He was her Michael--it was just thatwhich was becoming evident, since nothing else would account for herclaim of him, unconsciously whispered by herself to herself.

  It was not long before Lady Ashbridge's nurse appeared, to take herupstairs to rest. At that her patient became suddenly and unaccountablyagitated: all the happy content of the day was wiped off her mind. Sheclung to Michael.

  "No, no, Michael," she said, "they mustn't take me away. I know they aregoing to take me away from you altogether. You mustn't leave me."

  Nurse Baker came towards her.

  "Now, my lady, you mustn't behave like that," she said. "You know youare only going upstairs to rest as usual before dinner. You will seeLord Comber again then."

  She shrank from her, shielding herself behind Michael's shoulder.

  "No, Michael, no!" she repeated. "I'm going to be taken away from you.And look, Miss--ah, my dear, I have forgotten your name--look, she hasgot no hat on. She was going to stop with me a long time. Michael, mustI go?"

  Michael saw the nurse looking at her, watching her with that quiet eyeof the trained attendant.

  Then she spoke to Michael.

  "Well, if Lord Comber will just step outside with me," she said, "we'llsee if we can arrange for you to stop a little longer."

  "And you'll come back, Michael," said she.

  Michael saw that the nurse wanted to say something to him, and withinfinite gentleness disentangled the clinging of Lady Ashbridge's hand.

  "Why, of course I will," he said. "And won't you give Miss Falbe anothercup of tea?"

  Lady Ashbridge hesitated a moment.

  "Yes, I'll do that," she said. "And by the time I've done that you willbe back again, won't you?"

  Michael followed the nurse from the room, who closed the door withoutshutting it.

  "There's something I don't like about her this evening," she said. "Allday I have been rather anxious. She must be watched very carefully. NowI want you to get her to come upstairs, and I'll try to make her go tobed."

  Michael felt his mouth go suddenly dry.

  "What do you expect?" he said.

  "I don't expect anything, but we must be prepared. A change comes veryquickly."

  Michael nodded, and they went back together.

  "Now, mother darling," he said, "up you go with Nurse Baker. You've beenout all day, and you must have a good rest before dinner. Shall I comeup and see you soon?"

  A curious, sly look came into Lady Ashbridge's face.

  "Yes, but where am I going to?" she said. "How do I know Nurse Bakerwill take me to my own room?"

  "Because I promise you she will," said Michael.

  That instantly reassured her. Mood after mood, as Michael saw, werepassing like shadows over her mind.

  "Ah, that's enough!" she said. "Good-bye, Miss--there! the name's goneagain! But won't you sit here and have a talk to Michael, and let himshow you over the house to see if you like it against the time--Oh,Michael said I mustn't worry you about that. And won't you stop and havedinner with us, and afterwards we can sing."

  Michael put his arm around her.

  "We'll talk about that while you're resting," he said. "Don't keep NurseBaker waiting any longer, mother."

  She nodded and smiled.

  "No, no; mustn't keep anybody waiting," she said. "Your father taught meto be punctual."

  When they had left the room together, Sylvia turned to Michael.

  "Michael, my dear," she said, "I think you are--well, I think you areMichael."

  She saw that at the moment he was not thinking of her at all, and herheart honoured him for that.

  "I'm anxious about my mother to-night," he said. "She has been so--Isuppose you must call it--well all day, but the nurse isn't easy abouther."

  Suddenly all his fears and his fatigue and his trouble looked out of hiseyes.

  "I'm frightened," he said, "and it's so unutterably feeble of me. AndI'm tired: you don't know how tired, and try as I may I feel that allthe time it is no use. My mother is slipping, slipping away."

  "But, my dear, no wonder you are tired," she said. "Michael, can'tanybody help? It isn't right you should do everything."

  He shook his head, smiling.

  "They can't help," he said. "I'm the only person who can help her. AndI--"

  He stood up, bracing mind and body.

  "And I'm so brutally proud of it," he said. "She wants me. Well, that'sa lot for a son to be able to say. Sylvia, I would give anything to keepher."

  Still he was not thinking of her, and knowing that, she came closeto him and put her arm in his. She longed to give him some feeling ofcomradeship. She could be sisterly to him over this without suggestingto him what she could not be to him. Her instinct had divined right,and she felt the answering pressure of his elbow that acknowledged hersympathy, welcomed it, and thought no more about it.

  "You are giving everything to keep her," she said. "You are givingyourself. What further gift is there, Michael?"

  He kept her arm close pressed by him, and she knew by the frankness ofthat holding caress he was thinking of her still either not at all, or,she hoped, as a comrade who
could perhaps be of assistance to courageand clear-sightedness in difficult hours. She wanted to be no more thanthat to him just now; it was the most she could do for him, but witha desire, the most acute she had ever felt for him, she wanted him toaccept that--to take her comradeship as he would have surely taken herbrother's. Once, in the last intimate moments they had had together, hehad refused to accept that attitude from her--had felt it a relationshipaltogether impossible. She had seen his point of view, and recognisedthe justice of the embarrassment. Now, very simply but very eagerly,she hoped, as with