“Aren’t you exaggerating?” he asked.

Michael shook his head.

“Oh, don’t tone it down, Francis!” he said.  “Even if I was exaggerating—­which I don’t for a moment admit—­the effect on my general efficiency would be the same.  I think what I say is true.”

Francis became more practical.

“But you’ve only been in the regiment three years,” he said.  “It won’t be very popular resigning after only three years.”

“I have nothing much to lose on the score of popularity,” remarked Michael.

There was nothing pertinent that could be consoling here.

“And have you told your father?” asked Francis.  “Does Uncle Robert know?”

“Yes; I wrote to father this morning, and I’m going down to Ashbridge to-morrow.  I shall be very sorry if he disapproves.”

“Then you’ll be sorry,” said Francis.

“I know, but it won’t make any difference to my action.  After all, I’m twenty-five; if I can’t begin to manage my life now, you may be sure I never shall.  But I know I’m right.  I would bet on my infallibility.  At present I’ve only told you half my reasons for resigning, and already you agree with me.”

Francis did not contradict this.

“Let’s hear the rest, then,” he said.

“You shall.  The rest is far more important, and rather resembles a sermon.”

Francis appropriately sat down again.

“Well, it’s this,” said Michael.  “I’m twenty-five, and it is time that I began trying to be what perhaps I may be able to be, instead of not trying very much—­because it’s hopeless—­to be what I can’t be.  I’m going to study music.  I believe that I could perhaps do something there, and in any case I love it more than anything else.  And if you love a thing, you have certainly a better chance of succeeding in it than in something that you don’t love at all.  I was stuck into the army for no reason except that soldiering is among the few employments which it is considered proper for fellows in my position—­good Lord! how awful it sounds!—­proper for me to adopt.  The other things that were open were that I should be a sailor or a member of Parliament.  But the soldier was what father chose.  I looked round the picture gallery at home the other day; there are twelve Lord Ashbridges in uniform.  So, as I shall be Lord Ashbridge when father dies, I was stuck into uniform too, to be the ill-starred thirteenth.  But what has it all come to?  If you think of it, when did the majority of them wear their smart uniforms?  Chiefly when they went on peaceful parades or to court balls, or to the Sir Joshua Reynolds of the period to be painted.  They’ve been tin soldiers, Francis!  You’re a tin soldier, and I’ve just ceased to be a tin soldier.  If there was the smallest chance of being useful in the army, by which I mean standing up and being shot at because I am English, I would not dream of throwing it up.  But there’s no such chance.”