It had to be flung out like that. Lord
Ashbridge looked at him a moment in dead silence.
"I have not the honour of knowing Miss--Miss Falbe, is it?" he said;
"nor shall I have that honour."
Michael got up; there was that in his father's tone that stung him to
fury.
"It is very likely that you will not," he said, "since when I proposed
to her yesterday she did not accept me."
Somehow Lord Ashbridge felt that as an insult to himself. Indeed, it was
a double insult. Michael had proposed to this singer, and this singer
had not instantly clutched him. He gave his dreadful little treble
giggle.
"And I am to bind up your broken heart?" he asked.
Michael drew himself up to his full height. This was an indiscretion,
for it but made his father recognise how short he was. It brought farce
into the tragic situation.
"Oh, by no means," he said. "My heart is not going to break yet. I don't
give up hope."
Then, in a flash, he thought of his mother's pale, anxious face, her
desire that he should not vex his father.
"I am sorry," he said, "but that is the case. I wish--I wish you would
try to understand me."
"I find you incomprehensible," said Lord Ashbridge, and left the room
with his high walk and his swinging elbows.
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