the validity of her conclusion, for the Michael who was entertaining her to-night was wholly different from the Michael she had known and liked and pitied.  She felt that she did not know this new one yet, but she was certain that she liked him, and equally sure that she did not pity him at all.  He had found his place, he had found his work; he evidently fitted into his life, which, after all, is the surest ground of happiness, and it might be that it was only general joy, so to speak, that kindled that pleasant fire in his face.  And then once more she went back to her first conclusion, for talking to Michael herself she saw, as a woman so infallibly sees, that he gave her but the most superficial attention—­sufficient, indeed, to allow him to answer intelligently and laugh at the proper places, but his mind was not in the least occupied with her.  If Sylvia moved his glance flickered across in her direction:  it was she who gave him his alertness.  Aunt Barbara felt that she could have told him truthfully that he was in love with her, and she rather thought that it would be news to him; probably he did not know it yet himself.  And she wondered what his father would say when he knew it.

“And then Munich,” she said, violently recalling Michael’s attention towards her.  “Munich I could have borne better than Baireuth, and when Mr. Falbe asks me there I shall probably go.  Your Uncle Tony was in Germany then, by the way; he went over at the invitation of the Emperor to the manoeuvres.”

“Did he?  The Emperor came to Munich for a day during them.  He was at the opera,” said Michael.

“You didn’t speak to him, I suppose?” she asked.

“Yes; he sent for me, and talked a lot.  In fact, he talked too much, because I didn’t hear a note of the second act.”

Aunt Barbara became infinitely more interested.

“Tell me all about it, Michael,” she said.  “What did he talk about?”

“Everything, as far as I can remember, England, Ashbridge, armies, navies, music.  Hermann says he cast pearls before swine—­”

“And his tone, his attitude?” she asked.

“Towards us?—­towards England?  Immensely friendly, and most inquisitive.  I was never asked so many questions in so short a time.”

Aunt Barbara suddenly turned to Falbe.

“And you?” she asked.  “Were you with Michael?”

“No, Lady Barbara.  I had no pearls.”

“And are you naturalised English?” she asked.

“No; I am German.”

She slid swiftly off the topic.

“Do you wonder I ask, with your talking English so perfectly?” she said.  “You should hear me talking French when we are entertaining Ambassadors and that sort of persons.  I talk it so fast that nobody can understand a word I say.  That is a defensive measure, you must observe, because even if I talked it quite slowly they would understand just as little.  But they think it is the pace that stupefies them, and they leave me in a curious, dazed condition.  And now Miss Falbe and I are going to leave you two.  Be rather a long time, dear Michael, so that Mr. Falbe can tell you what he thinks of me, and his sister shall tell me what she thinks of you.  Afterwards you and I will tell each other, if it is not too fearful.”