“Not necessarily abroad. I’m not going to involve myself in a dangerous undertaking; but I’m just sufficiently tired of my very comfortable existence to wish to make an experiment. I may be away quite a short time, but I might want to be away a few months. Will you promise me not to worry yourself over my movements? Some of the success of this undertaking will probably depend on a certain amount of freedom. You can understand, can’t you, that the claims of home, however delightful, might in certain circumstances be a problem?” “I suppose you’re taking steps to prepare my mind for something very extremely unpleasant,” she said. “Let’s ascribe it all to my incurably romantic temperament,” Michael suggested. “And I’m not to worry?” “No, please don’t.” “But when are you going away?” “I’m not really going away at all,” Michael explained. “But if I didn’t come back to dinner one night or even the next night, would you be content to know quite positively that I hadn’t been run over?” “You’re evidently going to be thoroughly eccentric. But I suppose,” she added wistfully, “that after your deserted childhood I can hardly expect you to be anything else. Yet it seems so comfortable here.” She was looking round at the chairs. “I’m not proposing to go to the North Pole, you know,” Michael said, “but I don’t want to obey dinner-gongs.” “Very noisy and abrupt,” she agreed. Soon they were discussing all kinds of substitutions. “Mother, what an extraordinary lot you know about noise,” Michael exclaimed. “Dearest boy, I’m on the committee of a society for the abatement of London street noises.” “So deeply occupied with reform,” he said, patting her hand. “One must do something,” she smiled. “I know,” he asserted. “And therefore you’ll let me ride this new hobby-horse I’m trying without thinking it bucks. Will you?” “You know perfectly well that you will anyhow,” said Mrs. Fane, shaking her head. Michael felt justified in letting the conversation end at this admission. Maurice Avery had invited him to come round to the studio in order to assist at Castleton’s induction, and Michael walked along the Embankment to 422 Grosvenor Road. The large attic which ran all the width of the Georgian house was in a state of utter confusion, in the midst of which Castleton was hard at work hammering, while Maurice climbed over chairs in eager advice, and at the Bechstein Grand a tall dark young man was playing melodies from Tchaikovsky’s symphonies. “Just trying to make this place a bit comfortable,” said Castleton. “Do you know Cunningham?” He indicated the player, and Michael bowed. “Making it comfortable,” Michael repeated. “My first impression was just the reverse. I suppose it’s no good asking you people to give me lunch?” “Rather, of course,” Maurice declared. “Castleton, it’s your turn to buy lunch.”