Madame was in sedate French raptures. "Adorable! Le soleil est si bon!
How everything is chic, is it not, Annette? Monsieur is a real Monte
Cristo." Annette murmured assent, with a look up at Soames which he
could not read. He proposed a turn on the river. But to punt two persons
when one of them looked so ravishing on those Chinese cushions was
merely to suffer from a sense of lost opportunity; so they went but a
short way towards Pangbourne, drifting slowly back, with every now
and then an autumn leaf dropping on Annette or on her mother's
black amplitude. And Soames was not happy, worried by the thought:
'How--when--where--can I say--what?' They did not yet even know that
he was married. To tell them he was married might jeopardise his every
chance; yet, if he did not definitely make them understand that he
wished for Annette's hand, it would be dropping into some other clutch
before he was free to claim it.
At tea, which they both took with lemon, Soames spoke of the Transvaal.
"There'll be war," he said.
Madame Lamotte lamented.
"Ces pauvres gens bergers!" Could they not be left to themselves?
Soames smiled--the question seemed to him absurd.
Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British could not
abandon their legitimate commercial interests.
"Ah! that!" But Madame Lamotte found that the English were a little
hypocrite. They were talking of justice and the Uitlanders, not of
business. Monsieur was the first who had spoken to her of that.
"The Boers are only half-civilised," remarked Soames; "they stand in the
way of progress. It will never do to let our suzerainty go."
"What does that mean to say? Suzerainty!"
"What a strange word!" Soames became eloquent, roused by these threats
to the principle of possession, and stimulated by Annette's eyes fixed
on him. He was delighted when presently she said:
"I think Monsieur is right. They should be taught a lesson." She was
sensible!
"Of course," he said, "we must act with moderation. I'm no jingo. We
must be firm without bullying. Will you come up and see my pictures?"
Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon perceived that
they knew nothing. They passed his last Mauve, that remarkable study of
a 'Hay-cart going Home,' as if it were a lithograph. He waited almost
with awe to see how they would view the jewel of his collection--an
Israels whose price he had watched ascending till he was now almost
certain it had reached top value, and would be better on the market
again. They did not view it at all. This was a shock; and yet to have in
Annette a virgin taste to form would be better than to have the silly,
half-baked predilections of the English middle-class to deal with.
At the end of the gallery was a Meissonier of which he was rather
ashamed--Meissonier was so steadily going down. Madame Lamotte stopped
before it.