“I understand,” said Michael.
“The next is about your mother,” he said. “Do you notice any change in her?”
“Yes,” said Michael.
“Can you describe it at all?”
Michael hesitated.
“She shows quite a new affection for myself,” he said. “She came and talked to me last night in a way she had never done before.”
The irritation which Michael’s mere presence produced on his father was beginning to make itself felt. The fact that Michael was squat and long-armed and ugly had always a side-blow to deal at Lord Ashbridge in the reminder that he was his father. He tried to disregard this—he tried to bring his mind into an impartial attitude, without seeing for a moment the bitter irony of considering impartiality the ideal quality when dealing with his son. He tried to be fair, and Michael was perfectly conscious of the effort it cost him.
“I had noticed something of the sort,” he said. “Your mother was always asking after you. You have not been writing very regularly, Michael. We know little about your life.”
“I have written to my mother every week,” said Michael.
The magical effects of the Emperor’s interest were dying out. Lord Ashbridge became more keenly aware of the disappointment that Michael was to him.