"Well, I shall learn to play the piano," said Michael.

"But you play so rippingly already," said Francis cordially. "You played
all those songs the other night which you had never seen before. If you
can do that, there is nothing more you want to learn with the piano, is
there?"

"You are talking rather as father will talk," observed Michael.

"Am I? Well, I seem to be talking sense."

"You weren't doing what you seemed, then. I've got absolutely everything
to learn about the piano."

Francis rose.

"Then it is clear I don't understand anything about it," he said. "Nor,
I suppose, does Uncle Robert. But, really, I rather envy you, Mike.
Anyhow, you want to do and be something so much that you are gaily going
to face unpleasantnesses with Uncle Robert about it. Now, I wouldn't
face unpleasantnesses with anybody about anything I wanted to do, and I
suppose the reason must be that I don't want to do anything enough."

"The malady of not wanting," quoted Michael.

"Yes, I've got that malady. The ordinary things that one naturally does
are all so pleasant, and take all the time there is, that I don't want
anything particular, especially now that you've been such a brick--"