"So there's another reason to complain of the irony of fate," he said. "I don't want to marry anybody, and God knows nobody wants to marry me. But, then, it's my duty to become the father of another Lord Ashbridge, as if there had not been enough of them already, and his mother must be a certain kind of girl, with whom Ihave nothing in common. So I say that if only we could have changed places, you would have filled my niche so perfectly, and Ishould have been free to bury myself in Leipzig or Munich, and lived like the grub I certainly am, and have drowned myself in a sea of music. As it is, goodness knows what my father will say to the letter I wrote him yesterday, which he will have received this morning. However, that will soon be patent, for I go down there to-morrow. I wish you were coming with me. Can't you manage to for a day or two, and help things along? Aunt Barbara will be there."Francis consulted a small, green morocco pocket-book.
"Can't to-morrow," he said, "nor yet the day after. But perhaps Icould get 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't they? 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 Ishall come back and settle down in town and study.""Play the piano?" asked Francis, amiably trying to enter into his cousin's schemes.
Michael laughed.
"No doubt that will come into it," he said. "But it's rather as if you told somebody you were a soldier, and he said: 'Oh, is that quick march?'""So it is. Soldiering largely consists of quick march, especially when it'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 played all those songs the other night which you had never seen before. If you can do that, there is nothing more you want to learn with the piano, is there?""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 everything to 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 going to face unpleasantnesses with Uncle Robert about it. Now, I wouldn't face unpleasantnesses with anybody about anything I wanted to do, and I suppose the reason must be that Idon'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 does are all so pleasant, and take all the time there is, that Idon't want anything 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 rather nice 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 I sting. 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 you would 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 rather looking 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 want to. 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 you and 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 among them, which is the point that concerns me. The music of the world is German, you know!"Francis demurred to this.
"Oh, I don't think so," he said. "This thing at the Gaiety is ripping, I believe. Do come and see."Michael resisted this chance of revising his opinion about the German origin of music, and Francis drifted out into Piccadilly.
It was already getting on for seven o'clock, and the roadway and pavements were full of people who seemed rather to contradict Michael's theory that the nation generally suffered from the malady of not wanting, so eagerly and numerously were they on the quest for amusement. Already the street was a mass of taxicabs and private motors containing, each one of them, men and women in evening dress, hurrying out to dine before the theatre or the opera. Bright, eager faces peered out, with sheen of silk and glitter of gems; they all seemed alert and prosperous and keen for the daily hours of evening entertainment. A crowd similar in spirit pervaded the pavements, white-shirted men with coat on arm stepped in and out of swinging club doors and the example set by the leisured class seemed copiously copied by those whom desks and shops had made prisoners all day. The air of the whole town, swarming with the nation that is supposed to make so grave an affair of its amusements, was indescribably gay and lighthearted;the whole city seemed set on enjoying itself. The buses that boomed along were packed inside and out, and each was placarded with advertisement of some popular piece at theatre or music-hall.
