Then had succeeded those three nightmare years in the Guards, where, with his more mature power of observation, he had become more actively conscious of his inability to take his place on any of the recognised platforms.  And all the time, like an owl on his solitary perch, he had gazed out lonelily, while the other birds of day, too polite to mock him, had merely passed him by.  One such, it is true—­his cousin—­had sat by him, and the poor owl’s heart had gone out to him.  But even Francis, so he saw now, had not understood.  He had but accepted the fact of him without repugnance, had been fond of him as a queer sort of kind elder cousin.

Then there was Aunt Barbara.  Aunt Barbara, Michael allowed, had understood a good deal; she had pointed out with her unerringly humourous finger the obstacles he had made for himself.

But could Aunt Barbara understand the rapture of living which this one week of liberty had given him?  That Michael doubted.  She had only pointed out the disabilities he made for himself.  She did not know what he was capable of in the way of happiness.  But he thought, though without self-consciousness, how delightful it would be to show himself, the new, unshelled self, to Aunt Barbara again.

A laughing couple went tapping down the street below his window, boy and girl, with arms and waists interlaced.  They were laughing at nothing at all, except that they were boy and girl together and it was all glorious fun.  But the sight of them gave Michael a sudden spasm of envy.  With all this enlightenment that had come to him during this last week, there had come no gleam of what that simplest and commonest aspect of human nature meant.  He had never felt towards a girl what that round-faced German boy felt.  He was not sure, but he thought he disliked girls; they meant nothing to him, anyhow, and the mere thought of his arm round a girl’s waist only suggested a very embarrassing attitude.  He had nothing to say to them, and the knowledge of his inability filled him with an uncomfortable sense of his want of normality, just as did the consciousness of his long arms and stumpy legs.

There was a night he remembered when Francis had insisted that he should go with him to a discreet little supper party after an evening at the music-hall.  There were just four of them—­he, Francis, and two companions—­and he played the role of sour gooseberry to his cousin, who, with the utmost gaiety, had proved himself completely equal to the inauspicious occasion, and had drank indiscriminately out of both the girls’ glasses, and lit cigarettes for them; and, after seeing them both home, had looked in on Michael, and gone into fits of laughter at his general incompatibility.