He waited by a stile, watching the sky of which sunset had made a tranced archipelago set in a tideless sea. The purple islands stood out more and more distinct against the sheeted gold that lapped their indentations; then in a few moments the gold went out to primrose, the purple isles were grey as mice, and by an imperceptible breath of time became merged in a luminous green that held the young moon led downwards through the west by one great sulphur star. This speculation of the sky made Michael late for dinner, and gave his mother an opportunity to complain of his daylong desertion of her. “I rather wish we hadn’t come to Bournemouth,” said Michael. “I think it’s a bad place for us to choose to come together. I remember last time we stayed here you were always criticizing me.” “I suppose Bournemouth must have a bad effect on you, dearest boy,” said Mrs. Fane in her most gentle, most discouraging voice. Michael laughed a little bitterly. “You’re wonderful at always being able to put me in the wrong,” he said. “You’re sometimes not very polite, are you, nowadays? But I dare say you’ll grow out of this curious manner you’ve lately adopted towards me.” “Was I rude?” asked Michael, quickly penitent. “I think you were rather rude, dear,” said Mrs. Fane. “Of course, I don’t want you never to have an opinion of your own, and I quite realize that school has a disastrous effect on manners, but you didn’t apologize very gracefully for being late for dinner, did you, dear?” “I’m sorry. I won’t ever be again,” said Michael shortly. Mrs. Fane sighed, and the meal progressed in silence. Michael, however, could never bear to sulk, and he braced himself to be pleasant. “You ought to come over to Christchurch, mother. Shall we drive over one day?” “Well, I’m not very fond of looking at churches,” said Mrs. Fane. “But if you want to go, let us. I always like you to do everything you want.” Michael sighed at the ingenuity of his mother’s method, and changed the subject to their fellow-guests. “That’s rather a pretty girl, don’t you think?” “Where, dear?” asked Mrs. Fane, putting up her lorgnette and staring hard at the wife of a clergyman sitting across the room from their table. “No, no, mother,” said Michael, beaming with pleasure at the delightful vagueness of his mother which only distressed him when it shrouded his own sensations. “The next table—the girl in pink.” “Yes, decidedly,” said Mrs. Fane. “But dreadfully common. I can’t think why those sort of people come to nice hotels. I suppose they read about them in railway guides.” “I don’t think she’s very common,” said Michael. “Well, dear, you’re not quite at the best age for judging, are you?” “Hang it, mother, I’m seventeen.”