But she never laughed at real things; real
things were not funny, but were facts.
"He quite misunderstands," went on Michael, with the eagerness with
which the shy welcome comprehension. "He thinks I can make my mind
like his if I choose; and if I don't choose, or rather can't choose, he
thinks that his wishes, his authority, should be sufficient to make
me act as if it was. Well, I won't do that. He may go on,"--and that
pleasant smile lit up Michael's plain face--"he may go on being unaware
of my presence as long as he pleases. I am very sorry it should be so,
but I can't help it. And the worst of it is, that opposition of that
sort--his sort--makes me more determined than ever."
Aunt Barbara nodded.
"And your friends?" she asked. "What will they think?"
Michael looked at her quite simply and directly.
"Friends?" he said. "I haven't got any."
"Ah, my dear, that's nonsense!" she said.
"I wish it was. Oh, Francis is a friend, I know. He thinks me an odd
old thing, but he likes me. Other people don't. And I can't see why they
should. I'm sure it's my fault. It's because I'm heavy. You said I was,
yourself."
"Then I was a great ass," remarked Aunt Barbara. "You wouldn't be heavy
with people who understood you.
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