“You haven’t got to tell anything in the train,” Michael contradicted. “My mother is sure to invite you to dinner to-night, and you can tell her at home. It’s much better for me to be out of it. I shall be back in a few days to pack up various things I shall want for Plashers Mead.” “It’s a most extraordinary thing,” said Alan slowly, “that the moment you think there’s a chance of my marrying your sister, you drop me like a hot brick.” Michael touched his shoulder affectionately. “I’m more pleased about you and her than about anything that has ever happened,” he said earnestly. “Now are you content?” “Of course, I oughtn’t to have spoken to her,” said Alan. “I really don’t know, looking back at last night, how on earth I had the cheek. I expect I said a lot of rot. I ought certainly to have waited until I was in the Home Civil.” “You must chuck that idea,” said Michael. “Stella would loathe the Civil Service.” “I can’t marry ...” Alan began. “You’ve got to manage her affairs. She has a temperament. She also has land.” Then Michael explained about Prescott, and so eloquent was he upon the need for Stella’s happiness that Alan began to give way. “I always thought I should be too proud to live on a woman,” he said. “Don’t make me bring forward all my arguments over again,” Michael begged. “I’m already feeling very fagged. You’ll have all your work cut out. To manage Stella herself, let alone her piano and let alone her land, is worth a very handsome salary. But that’s nothing to do with it. You’re in love with each other. Are you going to be selfish enough to satisfy your own silly pride at the expense of her happiness? I could say lots more. I could sing your praises as ...” “Thanks very much. You needn’t bother,” interrupted Alan gruffly. “Well, will you not be an ass?” “I’ll try.” “Otherwise I shall tell you what a perfect person you are.” “Get out,” said Alan, flinging a cushion. Michael left him and went down to the Randolph. He found Stella already dressed and waiting impatiently in the lobby for his arrival. His mother was not yet down. “It’s all right,” he began, “I’ve destroyed the last vestige of Alan’s masculine vanity. Mother will be all right—if,” said Michael severely, pausing to relish the flavor of what might be the last occasion on which he would administer with authority a brotherly admonition. “_If_ you don’t put on a lot of side and talk about being twenty-one in a couple of months. Do you understand?” Stella for answer flung her arms round his neck, and Michael grew purple under the conspicuous affront she had put upon his dignity. “You absurd piece of pomposity,” she said. “I really adore you.” “For God’s sake don’t talk in that exaggerated way,” Michael muttered. “I hope you aren’t going to make a public ass of Alan like that. He’d be rather sick.” “If you say another word,” Stella threatened, “I’ll clap my hands and go dancing all round this hotel.”