"
Francis consulted a small, green morocco pocket-book.
"Can't to-morrow," he said, "nor yet the day after. But perhaps I could
get a few days' leave next week."
"Next week's no use. I go to Baireuth next week."
"Baireuth? Who's Baireuth?" asked Francis.
"Oh, a man I know. His other name was Wagner, and he wrote some tunes."
Francis nodded.
"Oh, but I've heard of him," he said. "They're rather long tunes, aren't
they? At least I found them so when I went to the opera the other night.
Go on with your plans, Mike. What do you mean to do after that?"
"Go on to Munich and hear the same tunes over, again. After that I shall
come back and settle down in town and study."
"Play the piano?" asked Francis, amiably trying to enter into his
cousin's schemes.
Michael laughed.
"No doubt that will come into it," he said. "But it's rather as if
you told somebody you were a soldier, and he said: 'Oh, is that quick
march?'"
"So it is. Soldiering largely consists of quick march, especially when
it's more than usually hot."
"Well, I shall learn to play the piano," said Michael.
"But you play so rippingly already," said Francis cordially. "You played
all those songs the other night which you had never seen before.
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