The arrival of Aunt Barbara and Francis that afternoon did something, by the mere addition of numbers to the party, to relieve the tension of the situation.  Lord Ashbridge said little but ate largely, and during the intervals of empty plates directed an impartial gaze at the portraits of his ancestors, while wholly ignoring his descendant.  But Michael was too wise to put himself into places where he could be pointedly ignored, and the resplendent dinner, with its six footmen and its silver service, was not really more joyless than usual.  But his father’s majestic displeasure was more apparent when the three men sat alone afterwards, and it was in dead silence that port was pushed round and cigarettes handed.  Francis, it is true, made a couple of efforts to enliven things, but his remarks produced no response whatever from his uncle, and he subsided into himself, thinking with regret of what an amusing evening he would have had if he had only stopped in town.  But when they rose Michael signed to his cousin to go on, and planted himself firmly in the path to the door.  It was evident that his father did not mean to speak to him, but he could not push by him or walk over him.

“There is one thing I want to say to you, father,” said he.  “I have told my mother that our interview this morning was quite amicable.  I do not see why she should be distressed by knowing that it was not.”

His father’s face softened a moment.

“Yes, I agree to that,” he said.

As far as that went, the compact was observed, and whenever Lady Ashbridge was present her husband made a point of addressing a few remarks to Michael, but there their intercourse ended.  Michael found opportunity to explain to Aunt Barbara what had happened, suggesting as a consolatory simile the domestic difficulties of the seals at the Zoological Gardens, and was pleased to find her recognise the aptness of this description.  But heaviest of all on the spirits of the whole party sat the anxiety about Lady Ashbridge.  There could be no doubt that some cerebral degeneration was occurring, and Lady Barbara’s urgent representation to her brother had the effect of making him promise to take her up to London without delay after Christmas, and let a specialist see her.  For the present the pious fraud practised on her that Michael and his father had had “a good talk” together, and were excellent friends, sufficed to render her happy and cheerful.  She had long, dim talks, full of repetition, with Michael, whose presence appeared to make her completely content, and when he was out or away from her she would sit eagerly waiting for his return.  Petsy, to the great benefit of his health, got somewhat neglected by her; her whole nature and instincts were alight with the mother-love that had burnt so late into flame, with this tragic accompaniment of derangement.  She seemed to be groping her way back to the days when Michael was a little boy, and she was a young woman; often she would seat herself