He did so, and stood looking at a David Cox adorning the cream-panelled

wall close by.

What was she thinking of? He had never understood a woman in his

life--except Fleur--and Fleur not always! His heart beat fast. But if he

meant to do it, now was the moment. Turning from the David Cox, he took

out the torn letter.

"I've had this."

Her eyes widened, stared at him, and hardened.

Soames handed her the letter.

"It's torn, but you can read it." And he turned back to the David Cox--a

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sea-piece, of good tone--but without movement enough. 'I wonder what

that chap's doing at this moment?' he thought. 'I'll astonish him yet.'

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Annette holding the letter rigidly;

her eyes moved from side to side under her darkened lashes and frowning

darkened eyes. She dropped the letter, gave a little shiver, smiled, and

said:

"Dirrty!"

"I quite agree," said Soames; "degrading. Is it true?"

A tooth fastened on her red lower lip. "And what if it were?"

She was brazen!

"Is that all you have to say?"

"No."

"Well, speak out!"

"What is the good of talking?"

Soames said icily: "So you admit it?"

"I admit nothing. You are a fool to ask. A man like you should not ask.

It is dangerous."

Soames made a tour of the room, to subdue his rising anger.

"Do you remember," he said, halting in front of her, "what you were when

I married you? Working at accounts in a restaurant."

"Do you remember that I was not half your age?"

Soames broke off the hard encounter of their eyes, and went back to the

David Cox.

"I am not going to bandy words. I require you to give up

this--friendship. I think of the matter entirely as it affects Fleur."

"Ah!--Fleur!"

"Yes," said Soames stubbornly; "Fleur. She is your child as well as

mine."

"It is kind to admit that!"

"Are you going to do what I say?"

"I refuse to tell you."

"Then I must make you."

Annette smiled.

"No, Soames," she said. "You are helpless. Do not say things that you

will regret."

Anger swelled the veins on his forehead. He opened his mouth to vent

that emotion, and could not. Annette went on:

"There shall be no more such letters, I promise you. That is enough."

Soames writhed. He had a sense of being treated like a child by this

woman who had deserved he did not know what.

"When two people have married, and lived like us, Soames, they had

better be quiet about each other. There are things one does not drag up

into the light for people to laugh at. You will be quiet, then; not for

my sake for your own. You are getting old; I am not, yet. You have made

me ver-ry practical"




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