etween them.
Michael's face had clouded with that gloom which his father would
certainly call sulky, and for himself he resented the tone of Michael's
reply. To make matters worse he gave his little falsetto cackle, which
no doubt was intended to convey the impression of confident good humour.
But there was, it must be confessed, very little good humour about
it, though he still felt no serious doubt about the result of this
interview.

"I'm afraid, perhaps, then, that I did not take your letter quite
seriously, my dear Michael," he said, in the bantering tone that froze
Michael's cordiality completely up. "I glanced through it; I saw a lot
of nonsense--or so it struck me--about your resigning your commission
and studying music; I think you mentioned Baireuth, and settling down in
London afterwards."

"Yes. I said all that," said Michael. "But you make a mistake if you do
not see that it was written seriously."

His father glanced across at him, where he sat with his heavy, plain
face, his long arms and short legs, and the sight merely irritated
him. With his passion for convention (and one of the most important
conventions was that Combers should be fine, strapping, normal people)
he hated the thought that it was his son who presented that appearance.
And his son's mind seemed to him at this moment as ungainly as his
person. Again, very unwisely, he laughed, still thinking to carry this
off by the high hand.

"Yes, but I can't take that rubbish seriously," he said. "I am asking
your permission now to inquire, without any nonsense, into what you
mean."

Michael frowned. He felt the insincerity of his father's laugh, and
rebelled against the unfairness of it. The question, he knew well, was
sarcastically asked, the flavour of irony in the "permission to inquire"
was not there by accident. To speak like that implied contempt of his
opposition; he felt that he was being treated like a child over some
nursery rebellion, in which, subsequently, there is no real possibility
of disobedience. He felt his anger rising in spite of himself.

"If you refer to it as rubbish, sir, there is the end of the matter."

"Ah! I thought we should soon agree," said Lord Ashbridge, chuckling.

"You mistake me," said Michael. "There is the end of the matter, because
I won't discuss it any more, if you treat me like this. I will say good
night, if you intend to persist in the idea that you can just brush my
resolves away like that."