Mrs. Fane looked at her son for a moment very intently, as if she were minded to tell him something. Then the parlour-maid came into the room, and she seemed to change her mind, and finally said in perfectly controlled accents:
“The same day as the announcement is made that—that your old friend Lord Saxby has raised a troop of horse—Saxby’s horse. He is going to Africa almost at once.”
“Another gentleman going to be killed for the sake of these rowdy swine at home!” said Michael savagely.
“Michael! What do you mean? Don’t you admire a man for—for trying to do something for his country?”
“It depends on the country,” Michael answered, “If you think it’s worth while doing anything for what England is now, I don’t. I wouldn’t raise a finger, if London were to be invaded to-morrow.”
“I don’t understand you, dearest boy. You’re talking rather like a Radical, and rather like old Conservative gentlemen I remember as a girl. It’s such a strange mixture. I don’t think you quite understand what you’re saying.”
“I understand perfectly what I’m saving,” Michael contradicted.
“Well, then I don’t think you ought to talk like that. I don’t think it’s kind or considerate to me and, after you’ve just heard about Captain Ross’s death, I think it’s irreverent. And I thought you attached so much importance to reverence,” Mrs. Fane added in a complaining tone.
Michael was vexed by his mother’s failure to understand his point of view, and became harder and more perverse every minute.
“Lord Saxby would be shocked to hear you talking like this, shocked and horrified,” she went on.