But I'm
not; no one knows that better than myself. Then there's the question of
marriage, too."
Michael gave a mirthless laugh.
"I'm twenty-five, you see," he said, "and it's the family custom for the
eldest son to marry at twenty-five, just as he's baptised when he's a
certain number of weeks old, and confirmed when he is fifteen. It's part
of the family plan, and the Medes and Persians aren't in it when the
family plan is in question. Then, again, the lucky young woman has to be
suitable; that is to say, she must be what my father calls 'one of us.'
How I loathe that phrase! So my mother has a list of the suitable, and
they come down to Ashbridge in gloomy succession, and she and I are
sent out to play golf together or go on the river. And when, to our
unutterable relief, that is over, we hurry back to the house, and I
escape to my piano, and she goes and flirts with you, if you are there.
Don't deny it. And then another one comes, and she is drearier than the
last--at least, I am."
Francis lay back and laughed at this dismal picture of the rejection of
the fittest.
"But you're so confoundedly hard to please, Mike," he said. "There was
an awfully nice girl down at Ashbridge at Easter when I was there, who
was simply pining to take you.
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