“Yes, and be worried by you to move on to Rome the very minute we arrive there,” said Michael. “No, thanks. If you don’t want to come to Spain, I’ll try to get someone else. Anyway, I don’t mind going by myself.” “But what shall we do in Spain?” asked Maurice fretfully. Michael began to laugh. “We can dance the fandango,” he pointed out. “Or if the fandango is too hard, there always remains the bolero.” “If we went to Rome,” Maurice was persisting, but Michael cut him short. “It’s absolutely useless, Mossy. I am not going to Rome.” “Then I suppose I shall have to go to Spain,” said Maurice, in a much injured tone. So in the end it was settled chiefly, Michael always maintained, because Maurice found out it was advisable to travel with a passport. As not by the greatest exaggeration of insecurity could a passport be deemed necessary for Rome, Maurice decided it was an overrated city and became at once fervidly Spanish, even to the extent of saying “gracias” whenever the cruet was passed to him in hall. Wedderburn at the last moment thought he would like to join the expedition: so Maurice with the passport in his breast pocket preferred to call it. There were two or three days of packing in London, while Maurice stayed at 173 Cheyne Walk and was a great success with Mrs. Fane. The Rugby match against Cambridge was visited in a steady downpour. Wedderburn fetched his luggage, and the last dinner was eaten together at Cheyne Walk. Mrs. Fane was tenderly, if rather vaguely, solicitous for their safety. “Dearest Michael,” she said, “do be careful not to be gored by a bull. I’ve never been to Spain. One seems to know nothing about it. Mr. Avery, do have some more turkey. I hope you don’t dreadfully dislike garlic. Such a pungent vegetable. Michael darling, why are you laughing? Isn’t it a vegetable? Mr. Wedderburn, do have some more turkey. A friend of mine, Mrs. Carruthers, who is a great believer in Mental Science ... Michael always laughs at me when I try to explain.... Hark, there is the cab, really. I hope it won’t be raining in Spain. ‘Rain, rain, go to Spain.’ So ominous, isn’t it? Good-bye, dearest boy, and write to me at Mrs. Carruthers, High Towers, Godalming.” “I say, I know Mrs. Carruthers. She lives near us,” Maurice exclaimed. “Come on,” his friends insisted. “You haven’t time now to explain the complications of Surrey society.” “I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Fane. “Because you’ll be able to see that Michael remembers the address.” “I never forget addresses, mother,” protested Michael. “No, I know. I always think everyone is like me. Merry Christmas, and do send a post card to Stella. She was so hurt you wouldn’t go to Germany.”