“But could you not go down there perhaps once or twice a week, and get Bailey to come and consult you here?” he asked.

Lord Ashbridge held his head very high.

“That would be completely out of the question,” he said.

All this, Michael felt, had nothing to do with the problem of his mother and himself.  It was outside it altogether, and concerned only his father’s convenience.  He was willing to press this point as far as possible.

“I had imagined you would stop in London,” he said.  “Supposing under these circumstances I refuse to live with you?”

“I should draw my own conclusion as to the sincerity of your profession of duty towards your mother.”

“And practically what would you do?” asked Michael.

“Your mother and I would go to Ashbridge tomorrow all the same.”

Another alternative suddenly suggested itself to Michael which he was almost ashamed of proposing, for it implied that his father put his own convenience as outweighing any other consideration.  But he saw that if only Lord Ashbridge was selfish enough to consent to it, it had manifest merits.  His mother would be alone with him, free of the presence that so disconcerted her.

“I propose, then,” he said, “that she and I should remain in town, as you want to be at Ashbridge.”

He had been almost ashamed of suggesting it, but no such shame was reflected in his father’s mind.  This would relieve him of the perpetual embarrassment of his wife’s presence, and the perpetual irritation of Michael’s.  He had persuaded himself that he was making a tremendous personal sacrifice in proposing that Michael should live with them, and this relieved him of the necessity.

“Upon my word, Michael,” he said, with the first hint of cordiality that he had displayed, “that is very well thought of.  Let us consider; it is certainly the case that this derangement in your poor mother’s mind has caused her to take what I might almost call a dislike to me.  I mentioned that to Sir James, though it was very painful for me to do so, and he said that it was a common and most distressing symptom of brain disease, that the sufferer often turned against those he loved best.  Your plan would have the effect of removing that.”

He paused a moment, and became even more sublimely fatuous.

“You, too,” he said, “it would obviate the interruption of your work, about which you feel so keenly.  You would be able to go on with it.  Of myself, I don’t think at all.  I shall be lonely, no doubt, at Ashbridge, but my own personal feelings must not be taken into account.  Yes; it seems to me a very sensible notion.  We shall have to see what your mother says to it.  She might not like me to be away from her, in spite of her apparent—­er—­dislike of me.  It must all depend on her attitude.  But for my part I think very well of your scheme.  Thank you, Michael, for suggesting it.”