Lord Ashbridge’s eloquence was suddenly arrested. He had been cantering gleefully along, and had the very distinct impression of having run up against a stone wall. He dismounted, hurt, but in no way broken. “I am anxious to understand you, Michael,” he said. “Yes, father, but you don’t,” said he. “You have been explaining me all wrong. For instance, I don’t regard music as a diversion. That is the only explanation there is of me.” “And as regards my wishes and my authority?” asked his father. Michael squared his shoulders and his mind. “I am exceedingly sorry to disappoint you in the matter of your wishes,” he said; “but in the matter of your authority I can’t recognise it when the question of my whole life is at stake. I know that I am your son, and I want to be dutiful, but I have my own individuality as well. That only recognises the authority of my own conscience.” That seemed to Lord Ashbridge both tragic and ludicrous. Completely subservient himself to the conventions which he so much enjoyed, it was like the defiance of a child to say such things. He only just checked himself from laughing again. “I refuse to take that answer from you,” he said. “I have no other to give you,” said Michael. “But I should like to say once more that I am sorry to disobey your wishes.” The repetition took away his desire to laugh. In fact, he could not have laughed. “I don’t want to threaten you, Michael,” he said. “But you may know that I have a very free hand in the disposal of my property.” “Is that a threat?” asked Michael. “It is a hint.” “Then, father, I can only say that I should be perfectly satisfied with anything you may do,” said Michael. “I wish you could leave everything you have to Francis. I tell you in all sincerity that I wish he had been my elder brother. You would have been far better pleased with him.” Lord Ashbridge’s anger rose. He was naturally so self-complacent as to be seldom disposed to anger, but its rarity was not due to kindliness of nature. “I have before now noticed your jealousy of your cousin,” he observed. Michael’s face went white. “That is infamous and untrue, father,” he said. Lord Ashbridge turned on him. “Apologise for that,” he said. Michael looked up at his high towering without a tremor. “I wait for the withdrawal of your accusation that I am jealous of Francis,” he replied. There was a dead silence. Lord Ashbridge stood there in swollen and speechless indignation, and Michael faced him undismayed. . . . And then suddenly to the boy there came an impulse of pure pity for his father’s disappointment in having a son like himself. He saw with the candour which was so real a part of him how hopeless it must be, to a man of his father’s mind, to have a millstone like himself unalterably bound round his neck, fit to choke and drown him.