Michael laughed.

“But certainly she is,” he said.  “Her father was German, her mother was a Tracy, just as well-born as you or I.”

“How odd, then, that her brother should have taken to giving music lessons.  That does not sound good.  Perhaps they are poor, and certainly there is no disgrace in being poor.  And what is her name?”

“Sylvia,” said Michael.  “You have probably heard of her; she is the Miss Falbe who made such a sensation in London last season by her singing.”

The old outlook, the old traditions were beginning to come to the surface again in poor Lady Ashbridge’s mind.

“Oh, my dear!” she said.  “A singer!  That would vex your father terribly.  Fancy the daughter of a Miss Tracy becoming a singer.  And yet you want her—­that seems to me to matter most of all.”

Then came a step at the door; it opened an inch or two, and Michael heard his father’s voice.

“Is your mother with you, Michael?” he asked.

At that Lady Ashbridge got up.  For one second she clung to her son, and then, disengaging herself, froze up like the sudden congealment of a spring.

“Yes, Robert,” she said.  “I was having a little talk to Michael.”

“May I come in?”

“It’s our secret,” she whispered to Michael.

“Yes, come in, father,” he said.

Lord Ashbridge stood towering in the doorway.

“Come, my dear,” he said, not unkindly, “it’s time for you to go to bed.”

She had become the mask of herself again.

“Yes, Robert,” she said.  “I suppose it must be late.  I will come.  Oh, there’s Petsy.  Will you ring, Michael? then Fedden will come and take him to bed.  He sleeps with Fedden.”

CHAPTER IX

Michael, in desperate conversational efforts next morning at breakfast, mentioned the fact that the German Emperor had engaged him in a substantial talk at Munich, and had recommended him to pass the winter at Berlin.  It was immediately obvious that he rose in his father’s estimation, for, though no doubt primarily the fact that Michael was his son was the cause of this interest, it gave Michael a sort of testimonial also to his respectability.  If the Emperor had thought that his taking up a musical career was indelibly disgraceful—­as Lord Ashbridge himself had done—­he would certainly not have made himself so agreeable.  On anyone of Lord Ashbridge’s essential and deep-rooted snobbishness this could not fail to make a certain effect; his chilly politeness to Michael sensibly thawed; you might almost have detected a certain cordiality in his desire to learn as much as possible of this gratifying occurrence.

“And you mean to go to Berlin?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I shan’t be able to,” said Michael; “my master is in London.”

“I should be inclined to reconsider that, Michael,” said the father.  “The Emperor knows what he is talking about on the subject of music.”