"There is a third thing," he said. "This concerns you. You are of the
age when we Combers usually marry. I should wish you to marry, Michael.
During this last year your mother has asked half a dozen girls down
here, all of whom she and I consider perfectly suitable, and no doubt
you have met more in London. I should like to know definitely if you
have considered the question, and if you have not, I ask you to set
about it at once."
Michael was suddenly aware that never for a moment had Sylvia been away
from his mind. Even when his mother was talking to him last night Sylvia
had sat at the back, in the inmost place, throned and secure. And now
she stepped forward. Apart from the impossibility of not acknowledging
her, he wished to do it. He wanted to wear her publicly, though she was
not his; he wanted to take his allegiance oath, though his sovereign
heeded not.
"I have considered the question," he said, "and I have quite made up my
mind whom I want to marry. She is Miss Falbe, Miss Sylvia Falbe, of whom
you may have heard as a singer. She is the sister of my music-master,
and I can certainly marry nobody else."
It was not merely defiance of the dreadful old tradition, which Lord
Ashbridge had announced in the manner of Moses stepping down from Sinai,
that prompted this appalling statement of the case; it was the joy
in the profession of his love.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248