Conscious that his feelings betrayed the period, Michael said:

“Oh! if that’s all! What price tea?”

They went up the lawn arm-inarm. Nobody was at home—Soames in London, Annette at a garden party. “We’ll have tea on the verandah, please,” said Fleur. Sitting there, happier than he ever remembered being, Michael conceded a certain value to Nature, to the sunshine stealing down, the scent of pinks and roses, the sighing in the aspens. Annette’s pet doves were cooing; and, beyond the quietly-flowing river, the spires of poplar trees rose along the further bank. But, after all, he was only enjoying them because of the girl beside him, whom he loved to touch and look at, and because, for the first time, he felt as if she did not want to get up and flutter off to some one or something else. Curious that there could be, outside oneself, a being who completely robbed the world of its importance, ‘snooped,’ as it were, the whole ‘bag of tricks’—and she one’s own wife! Very curious, considering what one was! He heard her say:

“Of course, mother’s a Catholic; only, living with father down here, she left off practising. She didn’t even bother me much. I’ve been thinking, Michael—what shall we do about HIM?”

“Let him rip.”

“I don’t know. He must be taught something, because of going to school. The Catholics, you know, really do get things out of their religion.”

“Yes; they go it blind; it’s the only logical way now.”

“I think having no religion makes one feel that nothing matters.”

Michael suppressed the words: ‘We could bring him up as a sun-worshipper,’ and said, instead:

“It seems to me that whatever he’s taught will only last till he can think for himself; then he’ll settle down to what suits him.”

“But what do YOU think about things, Michael? You’re as good as any one I know.”

“Gosh!” murmured Michael, strangely flattered: “Is that so?”

“What DO you think? Be serious!”

“Well, darling, doctrinally nothing—which means, of course, that I haven’t got religion. I believe one has to play the game—but that’s ethics.”

“But surely it’s a handicap not to be able to rely on anything but oneself? If there’s something to be had out of any form of belief, one might as well have it.”

Michael smiled, but not on the surface.

“You’re going to do just as you like about the eleventh baronet, and I’m going to abet you. But considering his breeding—I fancy he’ll be a bit of a sceptic.”

“But I don’t WANT him to be. I’d rather he were snug, and convinced and all that. Scepticism only makes one restless.”

“No white monkey in him? Ah! I wonder! It’s in the air, I guess. The only thing will be to teach him a sense of other people, as young as possible, with a slipper, if necessary.”

Fleur gave him a clear look, and laughed.

“Yes,” she said: “Mother used to try, but father wouldn’t let her.”

They did not reach home till past eight o’clock.

“Either your father’s here, or mine,” said Michael, in the hall; “there’s a prehistoric hat.”

“It’s Dad’s. His is grey inside. Bart’s is buff.”

In the Chinese room Soames indeed was discovered, with an opened letter, and Ting-a-ling at his feet. He held the letter out to Michael, without a word.

There was no date, and no address; Michael read:

Michael said cheerfully:

“Happy release! Now you’ll feel safer, sir.”

Soames passed his hand over his face, evidently wiping off its expression. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “This dog’s been keeping me company.”

Michael admired him at that moment. He was obviously swallowing his ‘grief,’ to save Fleur.

“Fleur’s a bit tired,” he said. “We’ve been on the river, and had tea at ‘The Shelter’; Madame wasn’t in. Let’s have dinner at once, Fleur.”

Fleur had picked up Ting-a-ling, and was holding her face out of reach of his avid tongue.

“Sorry you’ve had to wait, Dad,” she murmured, behind the yellow fur; “I’m just going to wash; shan’t change.”

When she had gone, Soames reached for the letter.

“A pretty kettle of fish!” he muttered. “Where it’ll end, I can’t tell!”

“But isn’t this the end, sir?”

Soames stared. These young people! Here he was, faced with a public scandal, which might lead to he didn’t know what—the loss of his name in the city, the loss of his fortune, perhaps; and they took it as if—! They had no sense of responsibility—none! All his father’s power of seeing the worst, all James’ nervous pessimism, had come to the fore in him during the hour since, at the Connoisseur’s Club, he had been handed that letter. Only the extra ‘form’ of the generation that succeeded James saved him, now that Fleur was out of the room, from making an exhibition of his fears.

“Your father in town?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Good!” Not that he felt relief. That baronet chap was just as irresponsible—getting him to go on that Board! It all came of mixing with people brought up in a sort of incurable levity, with no real feeling for money.

“Now that Elderson’s levanted,” he said, “the whole thing must come out. Here’s his confession in my hand—”

“Why not tear it up, sir, and say Elderson has developed consumption?”

The impossibility of getting anything serious from this young man afflicted Soames like the eating of heavy pudding.

“You think that would be honourable?” he said grimly.

“Sorry, sir!” said Michael, sobered. “Can I help at all?”

“Yes; by dropping your levity, and taking care to keep wind of this matter away from Fleur.”

“I will,” said Michael, earnestly: “I promise you. I’ll Dutch-oyster the whole thing. What’s your line going to be?”

“We shall have to call the shareholders together and explain this dicky-dealing. They’ll very likely take it in bad part.”

“I can’t see why they should. How could you have helped it?”

Soames sniffed.

“There’s no connection in life between reward and your deserts. If the war hasn’t taught you that, nothing will.”

“Well,” said Michael, “Fleur will be down directly. If you’ll excuse me a minute; we’ll continue it in our next.”

Their next did not occur till Fleur had gone to bed.

“Now, sir,” said Michael, “I expect my governor’s at the Aeroplane. He goes there and meditates on the end of the world. Would you like me to ring him up, if your Board meeting’s tomorrow?”

Soames nodded. He himself would not sleep a wink—why should ‘Old Mont’?

Michael went to the Chinese tea chest.

“Bart? This is Michael. Old For—my father-inlaw is here; he’s had a pill… No; Elderson. Could you blow in by any chance and hear?… He’s coming, sir. Shall we stay down, or go up to my study?”

“Down,” muttered Soames, whose eyes were fixed on the white monkey. “I don’t know what we’re all coming to,” he added, suddenly.

“If we did, sir, we should die of boredom.”

“Speak for yourself. All this unreliability! I can’t tell where it’s leading.”

“Perhaps there’s somewhere, sir, that’s neither heaven nor hell.”