“Well, do you like school?” she asked. “I like holidays better,” answered Michael. “I’m delighted to hear it,” Mrs. Carthew said decidedly. “I thought last year was beastly,” said Michael. “You see I was a boarder and that’s rot, if you were a day-boy ever, at least I think so. Alan and me are in the same form next term. We’re going to have a most frightful spree. We’re going to do everything together. I expect school won’t be half bad then.” “Your mother’s going to be at home, isn’t she?” Mrs. Carthew enquired. “Yes. Rather,” said Michael. “It will be awfully rum. She’s always away, you know. I wonder why.” “I expect she likes travelling about,” said Mrs. Carthew. “Yes, I expect she does,” Michael agreed. “But don’t you think it’s very rum that I haven’t got any uncles or aunts or any relations? I do. I never meet people who say they knew my father like Alan does and like Miss—like Mrs. Ross does. Once I went with my mater to see an awfully decent chap called Lord Saxby and my name’s Saxby. Do you think he’s a relation? I asked the mater, but she said something about not asking silly questions.” “Humph!” said Mrs. Carthew, as she adjusted her spectacles to examine an espalier of favourite peaches. “I think you’ll have to be very good to your mother,” she continued after a minute’s silence. “Oh, rather,” assented Michael vaguely. “You must always remember that you have a particular responsibility, as you will be alone with her for a long time, and, no doubt, she has given up a great deal of what she most enjoys in order to stay with you. So don’t think only of yourself.” “Oh, rather not,” said Michael.