He was profoundly touched by this humble timidity, by the sincerity, vague but unquestionable, that lay behind it.

“It’s never too late, is it?” he said, bending down and kissing the thin white hands that held his.  “We are in time, after all, aren’t we?”

She gave a little shiver.

“Oh, don’t kiss my hands, Michael,” she said.  “It hurts me that you should do that.  But it is sweet of you to say that I am not too late, after all.  Michael, may I just take you in my arms—­may I?”

He half rose.

“Oh, mother, how can you ask?” he said.

“Then let me do it.  No, my darling, don’t move.  Just sit still as you are, and let me just get my arms about you, and put my head on your shoulder, and hold me close like that for a moment, so that I can realise that I am not too late.”

She got up, and, leaning over him, held him so for a moment, pressing her cheek close to his, and kissing him on the eyes and on the mouth.

“Ah, that is nice,” she said.  “It makes my loneliness fall away from me.  I am not quite alone any more.  And now, if you are not tired will you let me talk to you a little more, and learn a little more about you?”

She pulled her chair again nearer him, so that sitting there she could clasp his arm.

“I want your happiness, dear,” she said, “but there is so little now that I can do to secure it.  I must put that into other hands.  You are twenty-five, Michael; you are old enough to get married.  All Combers marry when they are twenty-five, don’t they?  Isn’t there some girl you would like to be yours?  But you must love her, you know, you must want her, you mustn’t be able to do without her.  It won’t do to marry just because you are twenty-five.”

It would no more have entered into Michael’s head this morning to tell to his mother about Sylvia than to have discussed counterpoint with her.  But then this morning he had not been really aware that he had a mother.  But to tell her now was not unthinkable, but inevitable.

“Yes, there is a girl whom I can’t do without,” he said.

Lady Ashbridge’s face lit up.

“Ah, tell me about her—­tell me about her,” she said.  “You want her, you can’t do without her; that is the right wife for you.”

Michael caught at his mother’s hand as it stroked his sleeve.

“But she is not sure that she can do with me,” he said.

Her face was not dimmed at this.

“Oh, you may be sure she doesn’t know her own mind,” she said.  “Girls so often don’t.  You must not be down-hearted about it.  Who is she?  Tell me about her.”

“She’s the sister of my great friend, Hermann Falbe,” he said, “who teaches me music.”

This time the gladness faded from her.

“Oh, my dear, it will vex your father again,” she said, “that you should want to marry the sister of a music-teacher.  It will never do to vex him again.  Is she not a lady?”