“Good gracious, no. What makes you ask?” Michael demanded, blushing. “I was afraid that perhaps some horrid girl might have got hold of you,” said Mrs. Fane. “Why, would you mind very much?” asked Michael, with a curious hopefulness that his mother would pursue the subject, as if by so doing she would give him an opportunity of regarding himself and his behaviour objectively. “I don’t know that I should mind very much,” said Mrs. Fane, “if I thought you were quite certain not to do anything foolish.” Then she seemed to correct the laxity of her point of view, and substituted, “anything that you might regret.” “What could I regret?” asked Michael, seeking to drive his mother on to the rocks of frankness. “Surely you know what better than I can tell you. Don’t you?” The note of interrogation caught the wind, and Mrs. Fane sailed off on the starboard tack. “But as long as you’re not keeping anything from me,” she went on, “I don’t mind. So go out, dear child, and enjoy yourself by all means. But don’t be very late.” “I never am,” said Michael quickly, and a little resentfully as he thought of his very decorous homecomings. “I know you’re not. You’re really a very dear fellow,” his mother murmured, now safe in port. So at nine o’clock as usual Michael passed through the turnstiles and began his feverish progress across the Exhibition grounds, trying as he had never tried before to screw himself up to the pitch of the experience he craved. He was standing by one of the entrances to the Court of Marvels, struggling with his self-consciousness and egging himself on to be bold on this his last night, when he heard himself accosted as Mr. Michael Fane. He looked round and saw a man whom he instantly recognized, but for the moment could not name. “It is Mr. Michael Fane?” the stranger asked. “You don’t remember me? I met you at Clere Abbey.” “Brother Aloysius!” Michael exclaimed, and as he uttered the high-sounding religious appellation he almost laughed at the incongruity of it in connection with this slightly overdressed and dissolute-looking person he so entitled. “Well, not exactly, old chap. At least not in this get-up. Meats is my name.” “Oh, yes,” said Michael vaguely. There seemed no other comment on such a name, and Mr. Meats himself appeared sensitive to the implication of uncertainty, for he made haste to put Michael at ease by commenting on its oddity. “I suppose you’re thinking it’s a damned funny exchange for Brother Aloysius. But a fellow can’t help his name, and that’s a fact.” “You’ve left the Abbey then?” enquired Michael.