“Thought you were fond of horses,” said Soames. “Can’t you turn them out?”

“Yes,” said Val, drily; “but I’ve got my living to make. I haven’t told my wife, for fear she should suggest that. I’m afraid I might see them in my dreams if I sold them. They’re only fit for the kennels. Can I write to the executors and say I’m not rich enough to take them?”

“You can,” said Soames, and the words: “How’s your wife?” died unspoken on his lips. She was the daughter of his enemy, young Jolyon. That fellow was dead, but the fact remained.

“I will, then,” said Val. “How did his funeral go off?”

“Very simple affair—I had nothing to do with it.” The days of funerals were over. No flowers, no horses, no plumes—a motor hearse, a couple of cars or so, was all the attention paid nowadays to the dead. Another sign of the times!

“I’m staying the night at Green Street,” said Val. “I suppose you’re not there, are you?”

“No,” said Soames, and did not miss the relief in his nephew’s countenance.

“Oh! by the way, Uncle Soames—do you advise me to buy P.P.R.S. shares?”

“On the contrary. I’m going to advise your mother to sell. Tell her I’m coming in tomorrow.”

“Why? I thought—”

“Never mind my reasons!” said Soames shortly.

“So long, then!”

Exchanging a chilly hand-shake, he watched his nephew withdraw.

So long! An expression, old as the Boer war, that he had never got used to—meant nothing so far as he could see! He entered the reading-room. A number of Connoisseurs were sitting and standing about, and Soames, least clubbable of men, sought the solitude of an embrasured window. He sat there polishing the nail of one forefinger against the back of the other, and chewing the cud of life. After all, what was the point of anything. There was George! He had had an easy life—never done any work! And here was himself, who had done a lot of work! And sooner or later they would bury him too, with a motor hearse probably! And there was his son-inlaw, young Mont, full of talk about goodness knew what—and that thin-cheeked chap who had sold him the balloons this afternoon. And old Fontenoy, and that waiter over there; and the out-of-works and the inworks; and those chaps in Parliament, and the parsons in their pulpits—what were they all for? There was the old gardener down at Mapledurham pushing his roller over and over the lawn, week after week, and if he didn’t, what would the lawn be like? That was life—gardener rolling lawn! Put it that there was another life—he didn’t believe it, but for the sake of argument—that life must be just the same. Rolling lawn—to keep it lawn! What point in lawn? Conscious of pessimism, he rose. He had better be getting back to Fleur’s—they dressed for dinner! He supposed there was something in dressing for dinner, but it was like lawn—you came unrolled—undressed again, and so it went on! Over and over and over to keep up to a pitch, that was—ah! what WAS the pitch for?

Turning into South Square, he cannoned into a young man, whose head was craned back as if looking after some one he had parted from. Uncertain whether to apologise or to wait for an apology, Soames stood still.

The young man said abruptly: “Sorry, sir,” and moved on; dark, neat-looking chap with a hungry look obviously unconnected with his stomach. Murmuring: “Not at all!” Soames moved forward and rang his daughter’s bell. She opened to him herself. She was in hat and furs—just in. The young man recurred to Soames. Had he left her there? What a pretty face it was! He should certainly speak to her. If she once took to gadding about!

He put it off, however, till he was about to say “Goodnight”—Michael having gone to the political meeting of a Labour candidate, as if he couldn’t find something better to do!

“Now you’ve been married two years, my child, I suppose you’ll be looking towards the future. There’s a great deal of nonsense talked about children. The whole thing’s much simpler. I hope you feel that.”

Flour was leaning back among the cushions of the settee, swinging her foot. Her eyes became a little restless, but her colour did not change.

“Of course!” she said; “only there’s no hurry, Dad.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Soames murmured. “The French and the royal family have a very sound habit of getting it over early. There’s many a slip and it keeps them out of mischief. You’re very attractive, my child—I don’t want to see you take too much to gad-about ways. You’ve got all sorts of friends.”

“Yes,” said Fleur.

“You get on well with Michael, don’t you?”

“Oh! yes.”

“Well, then, why not? You must remember that your son will be a what-you-call-it.”

In those words he compromised with his instinctive dislike of titles and flummery of that nature.

“It mightn’t be a son,” said Fleur.

“At your age that’s easily remedied.”

“Oh, I don’t want a lot, Dad. One, perhaps, or two.”

“Well,” said Soames, “I should almost prefer a daughter, something like—well, something like you.”

Her softened eyes flew, restive, from his face to her foot, to the dog, all over the room.

“I don’t know, it’s a tie—like digging your own grave in a way.”

“I shouldn’t put it as high as that,” murmured Soames, persuasively.

“No man would, Dad.”

“Your mother wouldn’t have got on at all without you,” and recollection of how near her mother had been to not getting on at all with her—of how, but for him, she would have made a mess of it, reduced him to silent contemplation of the restive foot.

“Well,” he said, at last, “I thought I’d mention it. I—I’ve got your happiness at heart.”

Fleur rose and kissed his forehead.

“I know, Dad,” she said: “I’m a selfish pig. I’ll think about it. In fact, I—I have thought about it.”

“That’s right,” said Soames; “that’s right! You’ve a good head on you—it’s a great consolation to me. Goodnight, my dear!”

And he went up to his bed. If there was point in anything, it was in perpetuation of oneself, though, of course, that begged the question. ‘Wonder,’ he thought, ‘if I ought to have asked her whether that young man—!’ But young people were best left alone. The fact was, he didn’t understand them. His eye lighted on the paper bag containing those—those things he had bought. He had brought them up from his overcoat to get rid of them—but how? Put into the fire, they would make a smell. He stood at his dressing-table, took one up and looked at it. Good Lord! And, suddenly, rubbing the mouthpiece with his handkerchief, he began to blow the thing up. He blew until his cheeks were tired, and then, nipping the aperture, took a bit of the dental cotton he used on his teeth every night and tied it up. There the thing was! With a pettish gesture he batted the balloon. Off it flew—purple and extravagant, alighting on his bed. H’m! He took up the other, and did the same to it. Purple and green! The deuce! If any one came in and saw! He threw up the window, batted them, balloon after balloon, into the night, and shut the window down. There they’d be in the dark, floating about. His lips contracted in a nervous grin. People would see them in the morning. Well! What else could you do with things like that?