He heard a sound behind him, and saw that his wife and daughter had come
in.
"So you're back!" he said.
Fleur did not answer; she stood for a moment looking at him and her
mother, then passed into her bedroom. Annette poured herself out a cup
of tea.
"I am going to Paris, to my mother, Soames."
"Oh! To your mother?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"I do not know."
"And when are you going?"
"On Monday."
Was she really going to her mother? Odd, how indifferent he felt! Odd,
how clearly she had perceived the indifference he would feel so long
as there was no scandal. And suddenly between her and himself he saw
distinctly the face he had seen that afternoon--Irene's.
"Will you want money?"
"Thank you; I have enough."
"Very well. Let us know when you are coming back."
Annette put down the cake she was fingering, and, looking up through
darkened lashes, said:
"Shall I give Maman any message?"
"My regards."
Annette stretched herself, her hands on her waist, and said in French:
"What luck that you have never loved me, Soames!" Then rising, she too
left the room. Soames was glad she had spoken it in French--it seemed
to require no dealing with. Again that other face--pale, dark-eyed,
beautiful still! And there stirred far down within him the ghost of
warmth, as from sparks lingering beneath a mound of flaky ash. And Fleur
infatuated with her boy! Queer chance! Yet, was there such a thing as
chance? A man went down a street, a brick fell on his head. Ah! that was
chance, no doubt. But this! "Inherited," his girl had said. She--she was
"holding on"!