“What name?”

“Mr. Mont. My wife’s not here, I suppose?”

“No, sir. Only Mrs. Val Dartie.”

Mrs. Val Dartie! Yes, he remembered, nice woman—but not a substitute for Fleur! Committed, however, he followed the maid.

In the drawing-room Michael found three people, one of them his father-inlaw, who had a grey and brooding aspect, and, from an Empire chair, was staring at blue Australian butterflies’ wings under glass on a round scarlet table. Winifred had jazzed the Empire foundations of her room with a superstructure more suitable to the age. She greeted Michael with fashionable warmth. It was good of him to come when he was so busy with all these young poets. “I thought ‘Copper Coin,’” she said—“what a NICE title!—such an intriguing little book. I do think Mr. Desert is clever! What is he doing now?”

Michael said: “I don’t know,” and dropped on to a settee beside Mrs. Val. Ignorant of the Forsyte family feud, he was unable to appreciate the relief he had brought in with him. Soames said something about the French, got up, and went to the window; Winifred joined him—their voices sounded confidential.

“How is Fleur?” said Michael’s neighbour.

“Thanks, awfully well.”

“Do you like your house?”

“Oh, fearfully. Won’t you come and see it?”

“I don’t know whether Fleur would—?”

“Why not?”

“Oh! Well!”

“She’s frightfully accessible.”

She seemed to be looking at him with more interest than he deserved, to be trying to make something out from his face, and he added:

“You’re a relation—by blood as well as marriage, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the skeleton?”

“Oh! nothing. I’ll certainly come. Only—she has so many friends.”

Michael thought: ‘I like this woman!’ “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I came here this afternoon thinking I might find Fleur. I should like her to know you. With all the jazz there is about, she’d appreciate somebody restful.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve never lived in London?”

“Not since I was six.”

“I wish she could get a rest—pity there isn’t a d-desert handy.” He had stuttered; the word was not pronounced the same—still! He glanced, disconcerted, at the butterflies. “I’ve just been talking to a little Cockney whose S. O. S. is ‘Central Austrylia.’ But what do you say—Have we got souls to save?”

“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure—something’s struck me lately.”

“What was that?”

“Well, I notice that any one at all out of proportion, or whose nose is on one side, or whose eyes jut out, or even have a special shining look, always believes in the soul; people who are in proportion, and have no prominent physical features, don’t seem to be really interested.”

Michael’s ears moved.

“By Jove!” he said; “some thought! Fleur’s beautifully proportioned—SHE doesn’t seem to worry. I’m not—and I certainly do. The people in Covent Garden must have lots of soul. You think ‘the soul’s’ the result of loose-gearing in the organism—sort of special consciousness from not working in one piece.”

“Yes, rather like that—what’s called psychic power is, I’m almost sure.”

“I say, is your life safe? According to your theory, though, we’re in a mighty soulful era. I must think over my family. How about yours?”

“The Forsytes! Oh, they’re quite too well-proportioned.”

“I agree, they haven’t any special juts so far as I’ve seen. The French, too, are awfully close-knit. It really is an idea, only, of course, most people see it the other way. They’d say the soul produces the disproportion, makes the eyes shine, bends the nose, and all that; where the soul is small, it’s not trying to get out of the body, whence the barber’s block. I’ll think about it. Thanks for the tip. Well, do come and see us. Good-bye! I don’t think I’ll disturb them in the window. Would you mind saying I had to scoot?” Squeezing a slim, gloved hand, receiving and returning a smiling look, he slid out, thinking: ‘Dash the soul, where’s her body?’

Fleur’s body, indeed, was at the moment in one of those difficult positions which continually threaten the spirit of compromise. It was in fact in Wilfrid’s arms; sufficiently, at least, to make her say:

“No, Wilfrid—you promised to be good.”

It was a really remarkable tribute to her powers of skating on thin ice that the word ‘good’ should still have significance. For eleven weeks exactly this young man had danced on the edge of fulfilment, and was even now divided from her by two clenched hands pressed firmly against his chest, and the word ‘good’; and this after not having seen her for a fortnight.

When she said it, he let her go, with a sort of violence, and sat down on a piece of junk. Only the sense of damnable iteration prevented him from saying: “It can’t go on, Fleur.” She knew that! And yet it did! This was what perpetually amazed him. How a poor brute could hang on week after week saying to her and to himself: “Now or never!” when it wasn’t either. Subconsciousness, that, until the word ‘now’ had been reached, Fleur would not know her own mind, alone had kept him dancing. His own feelings were so intense that he almost hated her for indecision. And he was unjust. It was not exactly indecision. Fleur wanted the added richness and excitement which Wilfrid’s affection gave to life, but without danger and without loss. How natural! His frightful passionateness was making all the trouble. Neither by her wish, nor through her fault, was he passionate! And yet—it was both nice and proper to inspire passion; and, of course, she had the lurking sense that she was not ‘in the mode’ to cavil at a lover, especially since life owed her one.

Released, she smoothed herself and said: “Talk of something sensible; what have you been writing?”

“This.”

Fleur read. Flushing and biting her lips, she said:

“It’s frightfully bitter.”

“It’s frightfully true. Does HE ever ask you now whether you see me?”

“Never.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“What would you answer if he did?”

Fleur shrugged her shoulders.

Desert said quietly: “Yes, that’s your attitude. It can’t last, Fleur.” He was standing by the window. She put the sheets down on his desk and moved towards him. Poor Wilfrid! Now that he was quiet she was sorry.

He said suddenly: “Stop! Don’t move! HE’S down there in the street.”

Recoiling, she gasped: “Michael! Oh! But how—how could he have known?”

Desert said grimly: “Do you only know him as little as that? Do you suppose he’d be there if he knew you were here?”

Fleur winced.

“Why IS he there, then?”

“He probably wants to see me. He looks as if he couldn’t make up his mind. Don’t get the wind up, he won’t be let in.”

Fleur sat down; she felt weak in the legs. The ice seemed suddenly of an appalling thinness—the water appallingly cold.

“Has he seen you?” she said.

“No.”

The thought flashed through him: ‘If I were a blackguard, I could force her hand, by moving one step and crooking my finger.’ Pity one wasn’t a blackguard—at all events, not to that point—things would be so much simpler!

“Where is he now?” asked Fleur.

“Going away.”

In profound relief, she sighed out:

“But it’s queer, isn’t it, Wilfrid?”

“You don’t suppose he’s easy in his mind, do you?”

Fleur bit her lips. He was jeering, because she didn’t or couldn’t really love either of them. It was unjust. She COULD have loved—she HAD loved! Wilfrid and Michael—they might go to the deuce!

“I wish I had never come here,” she said suddenly: “and I’ll never come again!”

He went to the door, and held it open.

“You are right.”

Fleur stood quite still, her chin on the collar of her fur, her clear-glancing eyes fixed on his face, her lips set and mutinous.