A voice said cheerfully: “Bit thick, isn’t it, sir?”
The young man who had handed him his handkerchief was again passing. Soames nodded.
“I don’t know what we’re coming to.”
“Oh! That’s all right, sir,” answered the young man cheerfully; “they don’t either.”
Fleur’s voice said, precisely as if he had been keeping her waiting:
“Hallo, Father! There you are!”
The young man, snatching off his hat, passed on.
“Well,” said Soames, looking her up and down, “you’re a punctual sort of young woman!”
This treasured possession of his life was of medium height and color, with short, dark-chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes were set in whites so clear that they glinted when they moved, and yet in repose were almost dreamy under very white, black-lashed lids, held over them in a sort of suspense. She had a charming profile, and nothing of her father in her face save a decided chin. Aware that his expression was softening as he looked at her, Soames frowned to preserve the unemotionalism proper to a Forsyte. He knew she was only too inclined to take advantage of his weakness.
Slipping her hand under his arm, she said:
“Who was that?”
“He picked up my handkerchief. We talked about the pictures.”
“You’re not going to buy THAT, Father?”
“No,” said Soames grimly; “nor that Juno you’ve been looking at.”
Fleur dragged at his arm. “Oh! Let’s go! It’s a ghastly show.”
In the doorway they passed the young man called Mont and his partner. But Soames had hung out a board marked “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” and he barely acknowledged the young fellow’s salute.
“Well,” he said in the street, “whom did you meet at Imogen’s?”
“Aunt Winifred, and that Monsieur Profond.”
“Oh!” muttered Soames; “that chap! What does your aunt see in him?”
“I don’t know. He looks pretty deep—mother says she likes him.”
Soames grunted.
“Cousin Val and his wife were there, too.”
“What!” said Soames. “I thought they were back in South Africa.”
“Oh, no! They’ve sold their farm. Cousin Val is going to train race-horses on the Sussex Downs. They’ve got a jolly old manor-house; they asked me down there.”
Soames coughed: the news was distasteful to him. “What’s his wife like now?”
“Very quiet, but nice, I think.”
Soames coughed again. “He’s a rackety chap, your cousin Val.”
“Oh! no, Father; they’re awfully devoted. I promised to go—Saturday to Wednesday next.”
“Training race-horses!” said Soames. It was bad enough, but not the reason for his distaste. Why the deuce couldn’t his nephew have stayed out in South Africa? His own divorce had been bad enough, without his nephew’s marriage to the daughter of the co-respondent; a half-sister too of June, and of that boy whom Fleur had just been looking at from under the pump-handle. If he didn’t look out, Fleur would come to know all about that old disgrace! Unpleasant things! They were round him this afternoon like a swarm of bees!
“I don’t like it!” he said.
“I want to see the race-horses,” murmured Fleur; “and they’ve promised I shall ride. Cousin Val can’t walk much, you know; but he can ride perfectly. He’s going to show me their gallops.”
“Racing!” said Soames. “It’s a pity the War didn’t knock that on the head. He’s taking after his father, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t know anything about his father.”
“No,” said Soames grimly. “He took an interest in horses and broke his neck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for your aunt.” He frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which he had attended in Paris six years ago, because Montague Dartie could not attend it himself—perfectly normal stairs in a house where they played baccarat. Either his winnings or the way he had celebrated them had gone to his brother-inlaw’s head. The French procedure had been very loose; he had had a lot of trouble with it.
A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. “Look! The people who were in the Gallery with us.”
“What people?” muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well.
“I think that woman’s beautiful.”
“Come into this pastry-cook’s,” said Soames abruptly, and tightening his grip on her arm, he turned into a confectioner’s. It was—for him—a surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously: “What will you have?”
“Oh! I don’t want anything. I had a cocktail and a tremendous lunch.”
“We MUST have something now we’re here,” muttered Soames, keeping hold of her arm.
“Two teas,” he said; “and two of those nougat things.”
But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. Those three—those three were coming in! He heard Irene say something to her boy, and his answer:
“Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right. My stunt.” And the three sat down.
At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts and shadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had ever loved—his divorced wife and his daughter by her successor—Soames was not so much afraid of THEM as of his cousin June. She might make a scene—she might introduce those two children—she was capable of anything. He bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck to his plate. Working at it with his finger, he glanced at Fleur. She was masticating dreamily, but her eyes were on the boy. The Forsyte in him said: “Think, feel, and you’re done for!” And he wiggled his finger desperately. Plate! Did Jolyon wear a plate? Did that woman wear a plate? Time had been when he had seen her wearing nothing! That was something, anyway, which had never been stolen from him. And she knew it, though she might sit there calm and self-possessed, as if she had never been his wife. An acid humor stirred in his Forsyte blood; a subtle pain divided by hair’s-breadth from pleasure. If only June did not suddenly bring her hornets about his ears! The boy was talking.
“Of course, Auntie June,”—so he called his half-sister “Auntie,” did he?—well, she must be fifty, if she was a day!—“it’s jolly good of you to encourage them. Only—hang it all!” Soames stole a glance. Irene’s startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy. She—she had these devotions—for Bosinney—for that boy’s father—for this boy! He touched Fleur’s arm, and said:
“Well, have you had enough?”
“One more, Father, please.”
She would be sick! He went to the counter to pay. When he turned round again he saw Fleur standing near the door, holding a handkerchief which the boy had evidently just handed to her.
“F.F.,” he heard her say. “Fleur Forsyte—it’s mine all right. Thank you ever so.”
Good God! She had caught the trick from what he’d told her in the Gallery—monkey!
“Forsyte? Why—that’s my name too. Perhaps we’re cousins.”
“Really! We must be. There aren’t any others. I live at Mapledurham; where do you?”