infinite blue expanse, harnessed to the
southwest wind. But, above all, the sparrows dragged straws to and fro,
loudly chirruping. All spring was indexed there.

For a moment Michael was entranced with the exquisite moment, and stood
sunning his soul in spring. But then he felt the fetters of his own
individual winter heavy on him again, and he could only see what was
happening without feeling it. For that moment he had felt the leap in
his blood, but the next he was conscious again of the immense
fatigue that for weeks had been growing on him. The task which he had
voluntarily taken on himself had become no lighter with habit, the
incessant attendance on his mother and the strain of it got heavier day
by day. For some time now her childlike content in his presence had
been clouded and, instead, she was constantly depressed and constantly
querulous with him, finding fault with his words and his silences, and
in her confused and muffled manner blaming him and affixing sinister
motives to his most innocent actions. But she was still entirely
dependent on him, and if he left her for an hour or two, she would wait
in an agony of anxiety for his return, and when he came back overwhelmed
him with tearful caresses and the exaction of promises not to go away
again. Then, feeling certain of him once more, she would start again on
complaints and reproaches. Her doctor had warned him that it looked
as if some new phase of her illness was approaching, which might
necessitate the complete curtailment of her liberty; but day had
succeeded to day and she still remained in the same condition, neither
better nor worse, but making every moment a burden to Michael.

It had been necessary that Sylvia should discontinue her visits, for
some weeks ago Lady Ashbridge had suddenly taken a dislike to her, and,
when she came, would sit in silent and lofty displeasure, speaking to
her as little as possible, and treating her with a chilling and awful
politeness. Michael had enough influence with his mother to prevent her
telling the girl what her crime had been, which was her refusal to
marry him; but, when he was alone with his mother, he had to listen to
torrents of these complaints. Lady Ashbridge, with a wealth of language
that had lain dormant in her all her life, sarcastically supposed that
Miss Falbe was a princess in disguise ("very impenetrable disguise, for
I'm sure she reminds me of a barmaid more than a princess"), and thought
that su