"
"A good many fellows are jelly-fish," observed Michael.
"I suppose so. I'm one, you know. I drift and float. But I don't think I
sting. What are you doing to-night, by the way?"
"Playing the piano, I hope. Why?"
"Only that two fellows are dining with me, and I thought perhaps you
would come. Aunt Barbara sent me the ticket for a box at the Gaiety,
too, and we might look in there. Then there's a dance somewhere."
"Thanks very much, but I think I won't," said Michael. "I'm rather
looking forward to an evening alone."
"And that's an odd thing to look forward to," remarked Francis.
"Not when you want to play the piano. I shall have a chop here at eight,
and probably thump away till midnight."
Francis looked round for his hat and stick.
"I must go," he said. "I ought to have gone long ago, but I didn't want
to. The malady came in again. Most of the world have got it, you know,
Michael."
Michael rose and stood by his tall cousin.
"I think we English have got it," he said. "At least, the English you
and I know have got it. But I don't believe the Germans, for instance,
have. They're in deadly earnest about all sorts of things--music among
them, which is the point that concerns me.
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