Afterwards, when Michael was left alone with his father, he found that his best efforts at conversation elicited only monosyllabic replies, and at last, in the despairing desire to bring things to a head, he asked him if he had received his letter.  An affirmative monosyllable, followed by the hissing of Lord Ashbridge’s cigarette end as he dropped it into his coffee cup, answered him, and he perceived that the approaching storm was to be rendered duly impressive by the thundery stillness that preceded it.  Then his father rose, and as he passed Michael, who held the door open for him, said: 

“If you can spare the time, Michael, I would like to have a talk with you when your mother and aunt have gone to bed.”

That was not very long delayed; Michael imagined that Aunt Barbara must have had a hint, for before half-past ten she announced with a skilfully suppressed laugh that she was about to retire, and kissed Michael affectionately.  Both her laugh and her salute were encouraging; he felt that he was being backed up.  Then a procession of footmen came into the room bearing lemonade and soda water and whiskey and a plate of plain biscuits, and the moment after he was alone with his father.

Lord Ashbridge rose and walked, very tall and majestic, to the fireplace, where he stood for a moment with his back to his son.  Then he turned round.

“Now about this nonsense of your resigning your commission, Michael,” he said.  “I don’t propose to argue about it, and I am just going to tell you.  If, as you have informed me, you have actually sent it in, you will write to-morrow with due apologies and ask that it may be withdrawn.  I will see your letter before you send it.”

Michael had intended to be as quiet and respectful as possible, consistent with firmness, but a sentence here gave him a spasm of anger.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he said, “by saying ’if I have sent it in.’  You have received my letter in which I tell you that I have done so.”

Already, even at the first words, there was bad blood between them.  Michael’s face had clouded with that gloom which his father would certainly call sulky, and for himself he resented the tone of Michael’s reply.  To make matters worse he gave his little falsetto cackle, which no doubt was intended to convey the impression of confident good humour.  But there was, it must be confessed, very little good humour about it, though he still felt no serious doubt about the result of this interview.

“I’m afraid, perhaps, then, that I did not take your letter quite seriously, my dear Michael,” he said, in the bantering tone that froze Michael’s cordiality completely up.  “I glanced through it; I saw a lot of nonsense—­or so it struck me—­about your resigning your commission and studying music; I think you mentioned Baireuth, and settling down in London afterwards.”

“Yes.  I said all that,” said Michael.  “But you make a mistake if you do not see that it was written seriously.”