"Have you done anything to stop Jon writing to me, Father?"
Soames shook his head.
"You haven't seen, then?" he said. "His father died just a week ago
to-day."
"Oh!"
In her startled, frowning face he saw the instant struggle to apprehend
what this would mean.
"Poor Jon! Why didn't you tell me, Father?"
"I never know!" said Soames slowly; "you don't confide in me."
"I would, if you'd help me, dear."
"Perhaps I shall."
Fleur clasped her hands. "Oh! darling--when one wants a thing fearfully,
one doesn't think of other people. Don't be angry with me."
Soames put out his hand, as if pushing away an aspersion.
"I'm cogitating," he said. What on earth had made him use a word like
that! "Has young Mont been bothering you again?"
Fleur smiled. "Oh! Michael! He's always bothering; but he's such a good
sort--I don't mind him."
"Well," said Soames, "I'm tired; I shall go and have a nap before
dinner."
He went up to his picture-gallery, lay down on the couch there, and
closed his eyes. A terrible responsibility this girl of his--whose
mother was--ah! what was she? A terrible responsibility! Help her--how
could he help her? He could not alter the fact that he was her father.
Or that Irene--! What was it young Mont had said--some nonsense about
the possessive instinct--shutters up--To let? Silly!
The sultry air, charged with a scent of meadow-sweet, of river and
roses, closed on his senses, drowsing them.