“I’m sure it will be frightfully interesting, dear; you must tell me all about it. But what with the portrait and my Rest–House, I’m very tied, just now.”

“Well, then, I’ll look for you at the week-end. Your mother’s gone to some friends—they do nothing but play bridge; she’ll be away till Monday. I always want you, you know,” he added, simply. And to avoid his eyes she got up.

“I’ll just run up now, Dad, and change. Those Slum Committee Meetings always make me feel grubby. I don’t know why.”

“They’re a waste of time,” said Soames. “There’ll always be slums. Still, it’s something for you both to do.”

“Yes, Michael’s quite happy about it.”

“That old fool, Sir Timothy!” And Soames went up to the Fragonard. “I’ve hung that Morland. The Marquess is an amiable old chap. I suppose you know I’m leaving my pictures to the Nation? You’ve no use for them. You’ll have to live at that place Lippinghall some day. Pictures’d be no good there. Ancestors and stags’ horns and horses—that sort of thing. M’ff!”

A secret life and Lippinghall! Long, long might that conjunction be deferred!

“Oh, Bart will live for ever, Dad!’

“M’yes! He’s spry enough. Well, you run up!”

While she washed off powder and put it on again Fleur thought: ‘Dear Dad! Thank God! He’ll be far away!’

Now that her mind was thoroughly made up, it was comparatively easy to bluff, and keep her freshly-powdered face, smiling and serene, above the Chelsea dinner service.

“Where are you going to hang your portrait, when it’s done?” resumed Soames.

“Why! It’ll be yours, dear.”

“Mine? Well, of course; but you’ll hang it here; Michael’ll want it.”

Michael—unknowing! THAT gave her a twinge.

Well, she would be as good to him after, as ever. No old-fashioned squeamishness!

“Thank you, dear. I expect he’ll like it in the ‘parlour.’ The scheme IS silver and gold—my ‘Folly’ dress.”

“I remember it,” said Soames; “a thing with bells.”

“I think all that part of the picture’s very good.”

“What? Hasn’t he got your face?”

“Perhaps—but I don’t know that I approve of it frightfully.” After this morning’s sitting, indeed, she had wondered. Something avid had come into the face as if the Rafaelite had sensed the hardening of resolve within her.

“If he doesn’t do you justice I shan’t take it,” said Soames.

Fleur smiled. The Rafaelite would have something to say to that.

“Oh! I expect it’ll be all right. One never thinks one’s own effigies are marvellous, I suppose.”

“Don’t know,” said Soames, “never was painted.”

“You ought to be, dear.”

“Waste of time! Has he sent away the picture of that young woman?”

Fleur’s eyes did not flinch.

“Jon Forsyte’s wife? Oh! yes—long ago.”

She expected him to say: “Seen anything of them?” But it did not come. And that disturbed her more than if it had come.

“I had your cousin Val to see me today.”

Fleur’s heart stood still. Had they been talking?

“His name’s been forged.”

Thank heaven!

“Some people have no moral sense at all,” continued Soames. Involuntarily her white shoulder rose; but he wasn’t looking. “Common honesty, I don’t know where it is.”

“I heard the Marquess say to-night that ‘Honesty’s the best policy’ was a mere Victorianism, Dad.”

“Well, he’s ten years my senior, but I don’t know where he got that from. Everything’s twisted inside out, now-a-days.”

“But if it’s the best POLICY, there never was any particular virtue in it, was there?”

Soames took a sharp look at her smiling face.

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know. These are Lippinghall partridges, Dad.”

Soames sniffed. “Not hung quite long enough. You ought to be able to swear by the leg of a partridge.”

“Yes, I’ve told cook, but she has her own views.”

“And the bread sauce should have a touch more onion in it. Victorianism, indeed! I suppose he’d call ME a Victorian?”

“Well, aren’t you, Dad? You had forty-six years of her.”

“I’ve had twenty-five without her, and hope to have a few more.”

“Many, many,” said Fleur, softly.

“Can’t expect that.”

“Oh, yes! But I’m glad you don’t consider yourself a Victorian; I don’t like them. They wore too many clothes.”

“Don’t you be too sure of that.”

“Well, tomorrow you’ll be among Georgians, anyway.”

“Yes,” said Soames. “There’s a graveyard there, they say. And that reminds me—I’ve bought that corner bit in the churchyard down at home. It’ll do for me as well as any other. Your mother will want to go to France to be buried, I expect.”

“Give Mr. Forsyte some sherry, Coaker.”

Soames took a long sniff.

“This is some of your grandfather’s. He lived to be ninety.”

If she and Jon lived to be ninety—would nobody still know?… She left him at ten o’clock, brushing his nose with her lips.

“I’m tired, Dad; and you’ll have a long day tomorrow. Good-night, dear!”

Thank God he would be among the Georgians tomorrow!

Halting the car suddenly in the by-road between Gage’s farm and the Robin Hill coppice, Fleur said:

“Jon, dear, I’ve got a whim. Let’s get out and go in there. The potentate’s in Scotland.” He did not move, and she added: “I shan’t see you again for a long time, now your picture’s finished.”

Jon got out, then, and she unlatched the footpath gate. They stood a minute within, listening for sounds of anyone to interrupt their trespass. The fine September afternoon was dying fast. The last “sitting” had been long, and it was late; and in the coppice of larch and birch the dusk was deepening. Fleur slid her hand within his arm.

“Listen! Still, isn’t it? I feel as if we were back seven years, Jon. Do you wish we were? Babes in the wood once more?”

Gruffly he answered:

“No good looking back—things happen as they must.”

“The birds are going to bed. Used there to be owls?”

“Yes; we shall hear one soon, I expect.”

“How good it smells!”

“Trees and the cow-houses!”

“Vanilla and hay, as the poets have it. Are they close?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let’s go further, then.”

“Here’s the old log,” said Jon. “We might sit down, and listen for an owl.”

On the old log seat they sat down, side by side.

“No dew,” said Fleur. “The weather will break soon, I expect. I love the scent of drought.”

“I love the smell of rain.”

“You and I never love the same thing, Jon. And yet—we’ve loved each other.” Against her arm it was as if he shivered.

“There goes the old clock! It’s awfully late, Fleur! Listen! The owl!”

Startlingly close through the thin-branched trees the call came. Fleur rose: “Let’s see if we can find him.”

She moved back from the old log.

“Aren’t you coming? Just a little wander, Jon.”

Jon got up and went along at her side among the larches.

“Up this way—wasn’t it? How quickly it’s got dark. Look! The birches are still white. I love birchtrees.” She put her hand on a pale stem. “The smoothness, Jon. It’s like skin.” And, leaning forward, she laid her cheek against the trunk. “There! feel my cheek, and then the bark. Could you tell the difference, except for warmth?”

Jon reached his hand up. She turned her lips and touched it.

“Jon—kiss me just once.”

“You know I couldn’t kiss you ‘just once,’ Fleur.”

“Then kiss me for ever, Jon.”

“No, no! No, no!”

“Things happen as they must—you said so.”

“Fleur—don’t! I can’t stand it.”

She laughed—very low, softly.

“I don’t want you to. I’ve waited seven years for this. No! Don’t cover your face! Look at me! I take it all on myself. The woman tempted you. But, Jon, you were always mine. There! That’s better. I can see your eyes. Poor Jon! Now, kiss me!” In that long kiss her very spirit seemed to leave her; she could not even see whether his eyes were open, or, like hers, closed. And again the owl hooted.