“Mother,” Michael appealed, “don’t you think Stella ought not to be so horribly conceited? I do.” “Darling Stella,” said Mrs. Fane, “I’m afraid people spoil her. It isn’t her fault.” “It must be her fault,” argued Michael. Michael remembered Miss Carthew’s admonition not to snub Stella, but he could not help feeling that Miss Carthew herself would have disapproved of this open vanity. He wished that Miss Carthew were not now Mrs. Ross and far away in Edinburgh. He felt almost a responsibility with regard to Stella, a highly moral sensation of knowing better the world and its pitfalls than she could. He feared for the effect of its lure upon Stella and her vanity, and was very anxious his sister should always comport herself with credit to her only brother. In his mother’s attitude Michael seemed to discern a dangerous inclination not to trouble about Stella’s habit of thought. He resolved, when he and Stella were alone together, to address his young sister seriously. Stella’s nonchalance alarmed him more and more deeply as he began to look back at his own life and to survey his wasted years. Michael felt he must convince Stella that earnestness was her only chance. “You’re growing very fast, Michael,” said his mother one morning. “Really I think you’re getting too big for Etons.” Michael critically examined himself in his mother’s toilet-glass and had to admit that his sleeves looked short and that his braces showed too easily under his waistcoat. The fact that he could no longer survey his reflection calmly and that he dreaded to see Stella admire herself showed him something was wrong. “Perhaps I’d better get a new suit,” he suggested. In his blue serge suit, wearing what the shops called a Polo or Shakespeare collar, Michael felt more at ease, although the sleeves were now as much too long as lately his old sleeves were too short. The gravity of this new suit confirmed his impression that age was stealing upon him and made him the more inclined to lecture Stella. This desire of his seemed to irritate his mother, who would protest: “Michael, do leave poor Stella alone. I can’t think why you’ve suddenly altered. One would think you’d got the weight of the world on your shoulders.” “Like Atlas,” commented Michael gloomily. “I don’t know who it’s like,” said Mrs. Fane. “But it’s very disagreeable for everybody round you.” “Michael always thinks he knows about everything,” Stella put in spitefully. “Oh, shut up!” growled Michael.