The room where they sat was in Michael’s flat in Half Moon Street, and high up in one of those tall, discreet-looking houses.  The windows were wide open on this hot July afternoon, and the bourdon hum of London, where Piccadilly poured by at the street end, came in blended and blunted by distance, but with the suggestion of heat, of movement, of hurrying affairs.  The room was very empty of furniture; there was a rug or two on the parquet floor, a long, low bookcase taking up the end near the door, a table, a sofa, three or four chairs, and a piano.  Everything was plain, but equally obviously everything was expensive, and the general impression given was that the owner had no desire to be surrounded by things he did not want, but insisted on the superlative quality of the things he did.  The rugs, for instance, happened to be of silk, the bookcase happened to be Hepplewhite, the piano bore the most eminent of makers’ names.  There were three mezzotints on the walls, a dragon’s-blood vase on the high, carved chimney-piece; the whole bore the unmistakable stamp of a fine, individual taste.

“But there’s something else I want to talk to you about, Francis,” said Michael, as presently afterwards they sat over their tea.  “I can’t say that I exactly want your advice, but I should like your opinion.  I’ve done something, in fact, without asking anybody, but now that it’s done I should like to know what you think about it.”

Francis laughed.

“That’s you all over, Michael,” he said.  “You always do a thing first, if you really mean to do it—­which I suppose is moral courage—­and then you go anxiously round afterwards to see if other people approve, which I am afraid looks like moral cowardice.  I go on a different plan altogether.  I ascertain the opinion of so many people before I do anything that I end by forgetting what I wanted to do.  At least, that seems a reasonable explanation for the fact that I so seldom do anything.”

Michael looked affectionately at the handsome boy who lounged long-legged in the chair opposite him.  Like many very shy persons, he had one friend with whom he was completely unreserved, and that was this cousin of his, for whose charm and insouciant brilliance he had so adoring an admiration.

He pointed a broad, big finger at him.

“Yes, but when you are like that,” he said, “you can just float along.  Other people float you.  But I should sink heavily if I did nothing.  I’ve got to swim all the time.”

“Well, you are in the army,” said Francis.  “That’s as much swimming as anyone expects of a fellow who has expectations.  In fact, it’s I who have to swim all the time, if you come to think of it.  You are somebody; I’m not!”

Michael sat up and took a cigarette.

“But I’m not in the army any longer,” he said.  “That’s just what I am wanting to tell you.”

Francis laughed.

“What do you mean?” he asked.  “Have you been cashiered or shot or something?”