"
Michael caught at his mother's hand as it stroked his sleeve.
"But she is not sure that she can do with me," he said.
Her face was not dimmed at this.
"Oh, you may be sure she doesn't know her own mind," she said. "Girls so
often don't. You must not be down-hearted about it. Who is she? Tell me
about her."
"She's the sister of my great friend, Hermann Falbe," he said, "who
teaches me music."
This time the gladness faded from her.
"Oh, my dear, it will vex your father again," she said, "that you should
want to marry the sister of a music-teacher. It will never do to vex him
again. Is she not a lady?"
Michael laughed.
"But certainly she is," he said. "Her father was German, her mother was
a Tracy, just as well-born as you or I."
"How odd, then, that her brother should have taken to giving music
lessons. That does not sound good. Perhaps they are poor, and certainly
there is no disgrace in being poor. And what is her name?"
"Sylvia," said Michael. "You have probably heard of her; she is the Miss
Falbe who made such a sensation in London last season by her singing."
The old outlook, the old traditions were beginning to come to the
surface again in poor Lady Ashbridge's mind.
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