A secret conviction of his own concerning England was being reinforced day by day, in refutation of the pessimists. And there was no place so unEnglish at the moment, he felt, as the House of Commons, where people had nothing to do but pull long faces and talk over ‘the situation.’
The news of the General Strike’s collapse caught him as he was going home after driving Fleur to the canteen. A fizz and bustle in the streets, and the words: “Strike Over” scrawled extempore at street corners, preceded the “End of the Strike–Official” of the hurrying news-vendors. Michael stopped his car against the curb and bought a news-sheet. There it was! For a minute he sat motionless with a choky feeling, such as he had felt when the news of the Armistice came through. A sword lifted from over the head of England! A source of pleasure to her enemies dried up! People passed and passed him, each with a news-sheet, or a look in the eye. They were taking it almost as soberly as they had taken the strike itself. ‘Good old England! We’re a great people when we’re up against it!’ he thought, driving his car slowly on into Trafalgar Square. A group of men, who had obviously been strikers, stood leaning against the parapet. He tried to read their faces. Glad, sorry, ashamed, resentful, relieved? For the life of him he could not tell. Some defensive joke seemed going the round of them.
‘No wonder we’re a puzzle to foreigners!’ thought Michael: ‘The least understood people in the world!’
He moved on slowly round the square, into Whitehall. Here were some slight evidences of feeling. The block was thick around the Cenotaph and the entrance to Downing Street; and little cheers kept breaking out. A ‘special’ was escorting a lame man across the street. As he came back, Michael saw his face. Why, it was Uncle Hilary! His mother’s youngest brother, Hilary Charwell, Vicar of St. Augustine’s-inthe-Meads.
“Hallo, Michael!”
“You a ‘special,’ Uncle Hilary? Where’s your cloth?”
“My dear! Are you one of those who think the Church debarred from mundane pleasure? You’re not getting old-fashioned, Michael?”
Michael grinned. He had a real affection for Uncle Hilary, based on admiration for his thin, long face, so creased and humorous, on boyish recollection of a jolly uncle, on a suspicion that in Hilary Charwell had been lost a Polar explorer, or other sort of first-rate adventurer.
“That reminds me, Michael; when are you coming round to see us? I’ve got a topping scheme for airing ‘The Meads’.”
“Ah!” said Michael; “overcrowding’s at the bottom of everything, even this strike.”
“Right you are, my son. Come along, then, as soon as you can. You fellows in Parliament ought always to see things at first hand. You suffer from auto-intoxication in that House. And now pass on, young man, you’re impeding the traffic.”
Michael passed on, grinning. Good old Uncle Hilary! Humanising religion, and living dangerously–had climbed all the worst peaks in Europe; no sense of his own importance and a real sense of humour. Quite the best type of Englishman! They had tried to make him a dignitary, but he had jibbed at the gaiters and hat-ropes. He was what they called a ‘live wire’ and often committed the most dreadful indiscretions; but everybody liked him, even his own wife. Michael dwelt for a moment on his Aunt May. Forty–he supposed–with three children and fourteen hundred things to attend to every day; shingled, and cheerful as a sandboy. Nice-looking woman, Aunt May!
Having garaged his car, he remembered that he had not lunched. It was three o’clock. Munching a biscuit, he drank a glass of sherry, and walked over to the House of Commons. He found it humming in anticipation of a statement. Sitting back, with his legs stretched out, he had qualms. What things had been done in here! The abolitions of Slavery and of Child Labour, the Married Woman’s Property Act, Repeal of the Corn Laws; but could they be done nowadays? And if not–was it a life? He had said to Fleur that you couldn’t change your vocation twice and survive. But did he want to survive? Failing Foggartism–and Foggartism hadn’t failed only because it hadn’t started–what did he really care about?
Leaving the world better than he found it? Sitting there, he couldn’t help perceiving a certain vagueness about such an aspiration, even when confined to England. It was the aspiration of the House of Commons; but in the ebb and flow of Party, it didn’t seem to make much progress. Better to fix on some definite bit of administrative work, stick to it, and get something done. Fleur wanted him to concentrate on Kenya for the Indians. Again rather remote, and having little to do with England. What definite work was most needed in connection with England? Education? Bunkered again! How tell what was the best direction into which to turn education? When they brought in State Education, for instance, they had thought the question settled. Now people were saying that State education had ruined the State. Emigration? Attractive, but negative. Revival of agriculture? Well, the two combined were Foggartism, and he knew by now that nothing but bitter hardship would teach those lessons; you might talk till you were blue in the face without convincing anyone but yourself.
What then?
“I’ve got a topping scheme for airing ‘The Meads’.” The Meads was one of the worst slum parishes in London. ‘Clear the slums!’ thought Michael; ‘that’s practical anyway!’ You could smell the slums, and feel them. They stank and bit and bred corruption. And yet the dwellers therein loved them; or at least preferred them to slums they knew not of! And slum-dwellers were such good sorts! Too bad to play at shuttlecock with them! He must have a talk with Uncle Hilary. Lots of vitality in England still–numbers of red-haired children! But the vitality got sooted as it grew up–like plants in a back garden. Slum clearance, smoke abolition, industrial peace, emigration, agriculture, and safety in the air! ‘Them’s my sentiments!’ thought Michael. ‘And if that isn’t a large enough policy for any man, I’m–!’
He turned his face towards the Statement, and thought of his uncle’s words about this ‘House.’ Were they all really in a state of auto-intoxication here–continual slow poisoning of the tissues? All these chaps around him thought they were doing things. And he looked at the chaps. He knew most of them, and had great respect for many, but collectively he could not deny that they looked a bit dazed. His neighbour to the right was showing his front teeth in an asphyxiated smile. ‘Really,’ he thought; ‘it’s heroic how we all keep awake day after day!’
Chapter VIII.
SECRET
It would not have been natural that Fleur should rejoice in the collapse of the General Strike. A national outlook over such a matter was hardly in her character. Her canteen was completing the re-establishment in her of the social confidence which the Marjorie Ferrar affair had so severely shaken; and to be thoroughly busy with practical matters suited her. Recruited by Norah Curfew, by herself, Michael, and his Aunt Lady Alison Charwell, she had a first-rate crew of helpers of all ages, most of them in Society. They worked in the manner popularly attributed to negroes; they craned at nothing–not even beetles. They got up at, or stayed up to, all hours. They were never cross and always cheery. In a word, they seemed inspired. The difference they had made in the appearance of the railway’s culinary premises was startling to the Company. Fleur herself was ‘on the bridge’ all the time. On her devolved the greasing of the official wheels, the snipping off of red tape in numberless telephonic duels, and the bearding of the managerial face. She had even opened her father’s pocket to supplement the shortcomings she encountered. The volunteers were fed to repletion, and–on Michael’s inspiration–she had undermined the pickets with surreptitious coffee dashed with rum, at odd hours of their wearisome vigils. Her provisioning car, entrusted to Holly, ran the blockade, by leaving and arriving, as though Harridge’s, whence she drew her supplies, were the last place in its thoughts.
“Let us give the strikers,” said Michael, “every possible excuse to wink the other eye.”
The canteen, in fact, was an unqualified success. She had not seen Jon again, but she lived in that peculiar mixture of fear and hope which signifies a real interest in life. On the Friday Holly announced to her that Jon’s wife had arrived–might she bring her down next morning?
“Oh! yes,” said Fleur: “What is she like?”
“Attractive–with eyes like a water-nymph’s or so Jon thinks; but it’s quite the best type of water-nymph.”
“M-m!” said Fleur.
She was checking a list on the telephone next day when Holly brought Anne. About Fleur’s own height, straight and slim, darker in the hair, browner in complexion, browner in the eye (Fleur could see what Holly had meant by “water-nymph”) her nose a little too sudden, her chin pointed and her teeth very white, her successor stood. Did she know that Jon and she–?
And stretching out her free hand, Fleur said:
“I think it’s awfully sporting of you as an American. How’s your brother Francis?”
The hand she squeezed was brown, dry, warm; the voice she heard only faintly American, as if Jon had been at it.
“You were just too good to Francis. He always talks of you. If it hadn’t been for you–”
“That’s nothing. Excuse me… Ye-es?… No! If the Princess comes, ask her to be good enough to come when they’re feeding. Yes–yes–thank you! To-morrow? Certainly… Did you have a good crossing?”
“Frightful! I was glad Jon wasn’t with me. I do so hate being green, don’t you?”
“I never am,” said Fleur.
That girl had Jon to bend above her when she was green! Pretty? Yes. The browned face was very alive–rather like Francis Wilmot’s, but with those enticing eyes, much more eager. What was it about those eyes that made them so unusual and attractive? – surely the suspicion of a squint! She had a way of standing, too–a trick of the neck, the head was beautifully poised. Lovely clothes, of course! Fleur’s glance swept swiftly down to calves and ankles. Not thick, not crooked! No luck!
“I think it’s just wonderful of you to let me come and help.”
“Not a bit. Holly will put you wise.”
“That sounds nice and homey.”
“Oh! We all use your expressions now. Will you take her provisioning, Holly?”
When the girl had gone, under Holly’s wing, Fleur bit her lip. By the uncomplicated glance of Jon’s wife she guessed that Jon had not told her. How awfully young! Fleur felt suddenly as if she herself had never had a youth. Ah! If Jon had not been caught away from her! Her bitten lip quivered, and she buried it in the mouthpiece of the telephone.
Whenever again–three or four times–before the canteen was closed, she saw the girl, she forced herself to be cordial. Instinctively she felt that she must shut no doors on life just now. What Jon’s reappearance meant to her she could not tell; but no one should put a finger this time in whatever pie she chose to make. She was mistress of her face and movements now, as she had never been when she and Jon were babes in the wood. With a warped pleasure she heard Holly’s: “Anne thinks you wonderful, Fleur!” No! Jon had not told his wife about her. It was like him, for the secret had not been his alone! But how long would that girl be left in ignorance? On the day the canteen closed she said to Holly:
“No one has told Jon’s wife that he and I were once in love, I suppose?”
Holly shook her head.
“I’d rather they didn’t, then.”
“Of course not, my dear. I’ll see to it. The child’s nice, I think.”
“Nice,” said Fleur, “but not important.”
“You’ve got to allow for the utter strangeness of everything. Americans are generally important, sooner or later.”
“To themselves,” said Fleur, and saw Holly smile. Feeling that she had revealed a corner of her feelings, she smiled too.
“Well, so long as they get on. They do, I suppose?”
“My dear, I’ve hardly seen Jon, but I should say it’s perfectly successful. Now the strike’s over they’re coming down to us at Wansdon.”
“Good! Well, this is the end of the old canteen. Let’s powder our noses and get out; Father’s waiting for me with the car. Can we drop you?”
“No, thanks; I’ll walk.”
“What? The old gene? Funny how hard things die!”
“Yes; when you’re a Forsyte,” murmured Holly: “You see, we don’t show our feelings. It’s airing them that kills feelings.”
“Ah!” said Fleur: “Well, God bless you, as they say, and give Jon my love. I’d ask them to lunch, but you’re off to Wansdon?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
In the little round mirror Fleur saw her face mask itself more thoroughly, and turned to the door.
“I MAY look in at Aunt Winifred’s, if I’ve time. So long!”
Going down the stairs she thought: ‘So it’s air that kills feelings!’
Soames, in the car, was gazing at Rigg’s back. The fellow was as lean as a rail.
“Finished with that?” he said to her.
“Yes, dear.”
“Good job, too. Wearing yourself to a shadow.”
“Why? Do I look thin, Dad?”
“No,” said Soames, “no. That’s your mother. But you can’t keep on at that rate. Would you like some air? Into the Park, Riggs.”
Passing into that haven, he murmured:
“I remember when your grandmother drove here every day, regular as clockwork. People had habits, then. Shall we stop and have a look at that Memorial affair they made such a fuss about?”
“I’ve seen it, Dad.”
“So have I,” said Soames. “Stunt sculpture! Now, that St. Gaudens statue at Washington WAS something.” And he looked at her sidelong. Thank goodness she didn’t know of the way he had fended her off from young Jon Forsyte over there. She must have heard by now that the fellow was in London, and staying at her Aunt’s too! And now the strike was off, and normal railway services beginning again, he would be at a loose end! But perhaps he would go back to Paris; his mother was there still, he understood. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask. Instinct, however, potent only in his dealings with Fleur, stopped him. If she had seen the young man, she wouldn’t tell him of it. She was looking somehow secret–or was that just imagination?
No! He couldn’t see her thoughts. Good thing, perhaps! Who could afford to have his thoughts seen? The recesses, ramifications, excesses of thought! Only when sieved and filtered was thought fit for exposure. And again Soames looked sidelong at his daughter.
She was thinking, indeed, to purposes that would have upset him. How was she going to see Jon alone before he left for Wansdon? She could call tomorrow, of course, openly at Green Street, and probably NOT see him. She could ask him to lunch in South Square, but hardly without his wife or her own husband. There was, in fact, no way of seeing him alone except by accident. And she began trying to plan one. On the point of perceiving that the essence of an accident was that it could not be planned, she planned it. She would go to Green Street at nine in the morning to consult Holly and Anne on the canteen accounts. After such strenuous days Holly and Anne might surely be breakfasting in bed. Val had gone back to Wansdon, Aunt Winifred never got up! Jon MIGHT be alone! And she turned to Soames:
“Awfully sweet of you, Dad, to be airing me; I AM enjoying it.”
“Like to get out and have a look at the ducks? The swans have got a brood at Mapledurham again this year.”
The swans! How well she remembered the six little grey destroyers following the old swans over the green-tinged water, that six-year-gone summer of her love! Crossing the grass down to the Serpentine, she felt a sort of creeping sweetness. But nobody–nobody should know of what went on inside her. Whatever happened–and, after all, most likely nothing would happen–she would save face this time–strongest motive in the world, as Michael said.
“Your grandfather used to bring me here when I was a shaver,” said her father’s voice beside her. It did not add: “And I used to bring that wife of mine when we were first married.” Irene! She had liked water and trees. She had liked all beauty, and she hadn’t liked him!
“Eton jackets. Sixty years ago and more. Who’d have thought it then?”
“Who’d have thought what, Dad? That Eton jackets would still be in?”
“That chap–Tennyson, wasn’t it? – ‘The old order changeth, giving place to new.’ I can’t see you in high necks and skirts down to your feet, to saying nothing of bustles. Women then were defended up to the nines, but you knew just as much about them as you do now–and that’s precious little.”
“I wonder. Do you think people’s passions are what they used to be, Dad?”
Soames brooded into his hand. Now, why had she said that? He had once told her that a grand passion was a thing of the past, and she had replied that she had one. And suddenly he was back in steamy heat, redolent of earth and potted pelargonium, kicking a hot water pipe in a greenhouse at Mapledurham. Perhaps she’d been right; there was always a lot of human nature about.
“Passions!” he said: “Well, you still read of people putting their heads under the gas. In old days they used to drown themselves. Let’s go and have tea, at that kiosk place.”
When they were seated, and the pigeons were enjoying his cake, he took a long look at her. She had her legs crossed–and very nice they were! – and just that difference in her body from the waist up, from so many young women he saw about. She didn’t sit in a curve, but with a slight hollow in her back, giving the impression of backbone and a poise to her head and neck. She was shingled again–the custom had unexpected life–but, after all, her neck was remarkably white and round. Her face–short, with its firm rounded chin, very little powder and no rouge, with its dark-lashed white lids, clear-glancing hazel eyes, short, straight nose and broad low brow, with the chestnut hair over its ears, and its sensibly kissable mouth–really it was a credit!
“I should think,” he said, “you’d be glad to have more time for Kit again. He’s a rascal. What d’you think he asked me for yesterday–a hammer!”
“Yes; he’s always breaking things up. I smack him as little as possible, but it’s unavoidable at times–nobody else is allowed to. Mother got him used to it while we were away, so he looks on it as all in the day’s work.”
“Children,” said Soames, “are funny things. We weren’t made such a fuss of when I was young.”
“Forgive me, Dad, but I think YOU make more fuss of him than anybody.”
“What?” said Soames: “I?”
“You do exactly as he tells you. Did you give him the hammer?”
“Hadn’t one–what should I carry hammers about for?”
Fleur laughed. “No; but you take him so seriously. Michael takes him ironically.”
“The little chap’s got a twinkle,” said Soames.
“Mercifully. Didn’t you spoil ME, Dad?”
Soames gaped at a pigeon.
“Can’t tell,” he said. “Do you feel spoiled?”
“When I want things, I want things.”
He knew that; but so long as she wanted the right things!
“And when I don’t get them, I’m not safe.”
“Who says that?”
“No one ever says it, but I know it.”
H’m! What was she wanting now? Should he ask? And, as if attending to the crumbs on his lapel, he took ‘a lunar.’ That face of hers, whose eyes for a moment were off guard, was dark with some deep–he couldn’t tell! Secret! That’s what it was!
Chapter IX.
RENCOUNTER
With the canteen accounts in her hand, Fleur stepped out between her tubbed bay-trees. A quarter to nine by Big Ben! Twenty odd minutes to walk across the Green Park! She had drunk her coffee in bed, to elude questions–and there, of course, was Dad with his nose glued to the dining-room window. She waved the accounts, and he withdrew his face as if they had flicked him. He was ever so good, but he shouldn’t always be dusting her–she wasn’t a piece of china!
She walked briskly. She had no honeysuckle sensations this morning, but felt hard and bright. If Jon had come back to England to stay, she must get him over. The sooner the better, without fuss! Passing the geraniums in front of Buckingham Palace, just out and highly scarlet, she felt her blood heating. Not walk so fast or she would arrive damp! The trees were far advanced; the Green Park, under breeze and sun, smelled of grass and leaves. Spring had not smelled so good for years. A longing for the country seized on Fleur. Grass and trees and water–her hours with Jon had been passed among them–one hour in this very Park, before he took her down to Robin Hill! Robin Hill had been sold to some peer or other, and she wished him joy of it–she knew its history as of some unlucky ship! That house had ‘done in’ her father, and Jon’s father, yes–and his grandfather, she believed, to say nothing of herself. One would not be ‘done in’ again so easily! And, passing into Piccadilly, Fleur smiled at her green youth. In the early windows of the Club nicknamed by George Forsyte the ‘Iseeum,’ no one of his compeers sat as yet, above the moving humours of the street, sipping from glass or cup, and puffing his conclusions out in smoke. Fleur could just remember him, her old Cousin George Forsyte, who used to sit there, fleshy and sardonic behind the curving panes; Cousin George, who had owned the ‘White Monkey’ up in Michael’s study. Uncle Montague Dartie, too, whom she remembered because the only time she had seen him he had pinched her in a curving place, saying: “What are little girls made of?” so that she had clapped her hands when she heard that he had broken his neck, soon after; a horrid man, with fat cheeks and a dark moustache, smelling of scent and cigars. Rounding the last corner, she felt breathless. Geraniums were in her Aunt’s window boxes–but not the fuchsias yet. Was THEIR room the one she herself used to have? And, taking her hand from her heart, she rang the bell.
“Ah! Smither, anybody down?”
“Only Mr. Jon’s down yet, Miss Fleur.”
Why did hearts wobble? Sickening–when one was perfectly cool!
“He’ll do for the moment, Smither. Where is he?”
“Having breakfast, Miss Fleur.”
“All right; show me in. I don’t mind having another cup myself.”
Under her breath, she declined the creaking noun who was preceding her to the dining-room: “Smither: O Smither: Of a Smither: To a Smither: A Smither.” Silly!
“Mrs. Michael Mont, Mr. Jon. Shall I get you some fresh coffee, Miss Fleur?”
“No, thank you, Smither.” Stays creaked, the door was shut. Jon was standing up.
“Fleur!”
“Well, Jon?”
She could hold his hand and keep her pallor, though the blood was in HIS cheeks, no longer smudged.
“Did I feed you nicely?”
“Splendidly. How are you, Fleur? Not tired after all that?”
“Not a bit. How did you like stoking?”
“Fine! My engine-driver was a real brick. Anne will be so disappointed; she’s having a lie-off.”
“She was quite a help. Nearly six years, Jon; you haven’t changed much.”
“Nor you.”
“Oh! I have. Out of knowledge.”
“Well, I don’t see it. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes. Sit down and go on with yours. I came round to see Holly about some accounts. Is she in bed, too?”
“I expect so.”
“Well, I’ll go up directly. How does England feel, Jon?”
“Topping. Can’t leave it again. Anne says she doesn’t mind.”
“Where are you going to settle?”
“Somewhere near Val and Holly, if we can get a place, to grow things.”
“Still on growing things?”
“More than ever.”
“How’s the poetry?”
“Pretty dud.”
Fleur quoted:
“‘Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping Spanish city darkened under her white stars.’”
“Good Lord! Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
His eyes were as straight, his lashes as dark as ever.
“Would you like to meet Michael, Jon, and see my infant?”
“Rather!”
“When do you go down to Wansdon?”
“To-morrow or the day after.”
“Then, won’t you both come and lunch tomorrow?”
“We’d love to.”
“Half-past one. Holly and Aunt Winifred, too. Is your mother still in Paris?”
“Yes. She thinks of settling there.”
“Well, Jon–things fall on their feet, don’t they?”
“They do.”
“Shall I give you some more coffee? Aunt Winifred prides herself on her coffee.”
“Fleur, you do look splendid.”
“Thank you! Have you been down to see Robin Hill?”
“Not yet. Some potentate’s got it now.”
“Does your–does Anne find things amusing here?”
“She’s terribly impressed–says we’re a nation of gentlemen. Did you ever think that?”
“Positively–no; comparatively–perhaps.”
“It all smells so good here.”
“The poet’s nose. D’you remember our walk at Wansdon?”
“I remember everything, Fleur.”
“That’s honest. So do I. It took me some time to remember that I’d forgotten. How long did it take you?”
“Still longer, I expect.”
“Well, Michael’s the best male I know.”
“Anne’s the best female.”
“How fortunate–isn’t it? How old is she?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Just right for you. Even if we hadn’t been star-crossed, I was always too old for you. God! Weren’t we young fools?”
“I don’t see that. It was natural–it was beautiful.”
“Still got ideals? Marmalade? It’s Oxford.”
“Yes. They can’t make marmalade out of Oxford.”
“Jon, your hair grows exactly as it used to. Have you noticed mine?”
“I’ve been trying to.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Not so much, quite; and yet–”
“You mean I shouldn’t look well out of the fashion. Very acute! You don’t mind HER being shingled, apparently.”
“It suits Anne.”
“Did her brother tell you much about me?”
“He said you had a lovely house; and nursed him like an angel.”
“Not like an angel; like a young woman of fashion. There’s still a difference.”
“Anne was awfully grateful for that. She’s told you?”
“Yes. But I’m afraid, between us, we sent Francis home rather cynical. Cynicism grows here; d’you notice it in me?”
“I think you put it on.”
“My dear! I take it off when I talk to you. You were always an innocent. Don’t smile–you were! That’s why you were well rid of me. Well, I never thought I should see you again.”
“Nor I. I’m sorry Anne’s not down.”
“You’ve never told her about me.”
“How did you know that?”
“By the way she looks at me.”
“Why should I tell her?”
“No reason in the world. Let the dead past–It’s fun to see you again, though. Shake hands. I’m going up to Holly now.”
Their hands joined over the marmalade on his plate.
“We’re not children now, Jon. Till tomorrow, then! You’ll like my house. A revederci!”
Going up the stairs she thought with resolution about nothing.
“Can I come in, Holly?”
“Fleur! My dear!”
That thin, rather sallow face, so charmingly intelligent, was propped against a pillow. Fleur had the feeling that, of all people, it was most difficult to keep one’s thoughts from Holly.
“These accounts,” she said. “I’m to see that official ass at ten. Did you order all these sides of bacon?”
The thin sallow hand took the accounts, and between the large grey eyes came a furrow.
“Nine? No–yes; that’s right. Have you seen Jon?”
“Yes; he’s the only early bird. Will you all come to lunch with us tomorrow?”
“If you think it’ll be wise, Fleur.”
“I think it’ll be pleasant.”
She met the search of the grey eyes steadily, and with secret anger. No one should see into her–no one should interfere!
“All right then, we’ll expect you all four at one-thirty. I must run now.”
She did run; but since she really had no appointment with any “official ass,” she went back into the Green Park and sat down.
So that was Jon–now! Terribly like Jon–then! His eyes deeper, his chin more obstinate–that perhaps was all the difference. He still had his sunny look; he still believed in things. He still–admired her. Ye-es! A little wind talked above her in a tree. The day was surprisingly fine–the first really fine day since Easter! What should she give them for lunch? How should she deal with Dad? He must not be there! To have perfect command of oneself was all very well; to have perfect command of one’s father was not so easy. A pattern of leaves covered her short skirt, the sun warmed her knees; she crossed them and leaned back. Eve’s first costume–a pattern of leaves… “Wise?” Holly had said, Who knew? Shrimp cocktails? No! English food. Pancakes–certainly!… To get rid of Dad, she must propose herself with Kit at Mapledurham for the day after; then he would go, to prepare for them. Her mother was still in France. The others would be gone to Wansdon. Nothing to wait for in town. A nice warm sun on her neck. A scent of grass–of honeysuckle!
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
The news of the General Strike’s collapse caught him as he was going home after driving Fleur to the canteen. A fizz and bustle in the streets, and the words: “Strike Over” scrawled extempore at street corners, preceded the “End of the Strike–Official” of the hurrying news-vendors. Michael stopped his car against the curb and bought a news-sheet. There it was! For a minute he sat motionless with a choky feeling, such as he had felt when the news of the Armistice came through. A sword lifted from over the head of England! A source of pleasure to her enemies dried up! People passed and passed him, each with a news-sheet, or a look in the eye. They were taking it almost as soberly as they had taken the strike itself. ‘Good old England! We’re a great people when we’re up against it!’ he thought, driving his car slowly on into Trafalgar Square. A group of men, who had obviously been strikers, stood leaning against the parapet. He tried to read their faces. Glad, sorry, ashamed, resentful, relieved? For the life of him he could not tell. Some defensive joke seemed going the round of them.
‘No wonder we’re a puzzle to foreigners!’ thought Michael: ‘The least understood people in the world!’
He moved on slowly round the square, into Whitehall. Here were some slight evidences of feeling. The block was thick around the Cenotaph and the entrance to Downing Street; and little cheers kept breaking out. A ‘special’ was escorting a lame man across the street. As he came back, Michael saw his face. Why, it was Uncle Hilary! His mother’s youngest brother, Hilary Charwell, Vicar of St. Augustine’s-inthe-Meads.
“Hallo, Michael!”
“You a ‘special,’ Uncle Hilary? Where’s your cloth?”
“My dear! Are you one of those who think the Church debarred from mundane pleasure? You’re not getting old-fashioned, Michael?”
Michael grinned. He had a real affection for Uncle Hilary, based on admiration for his thin, long face, so creased and humorous, on boyish recollection of a jolly uncle, on a suspicion that in Hilary Charwell had been lost a Polar explorer, or other sort of first-rate adventurer.
“That reminds me, Michael; when are you coming round to see us? I’ve got a topping scheme for airing ‘The Meads’.”
“Ah!” said Michael; “overcrowding’s at the bottom of everything, even this strike.”
“Right you are, my son. Come along, then, as soon as you can. You fellows in Parliament ought always to see things at first hand. You suffer from auto-intoxication in that House. And now pass on, young man, you’re impeding the traffic.”
Michael passed on, grinning. Good old Uncle Hilary! Humanising religion, and living dangerously–had climbed all the worst peaks in Europe; no sense of his own importance and a real sense of humour. Quite the best type of Englishman! They had tried to make him a dignitary, but he had jibbed at the gaiters and hat-ropes. He was what they called a ‘live wire’ and often committed the most dreadful indiscretions; but everybody liked him, even his own wife. Michael dwelt for a moment on his Aunt May. Forty–he supposed–with three children and fourteen hundred things to attend to every day; shingled, and cheerful as a sandboy. Nice-looking woman, Aunt May!
Having garaged his car, he remembered that he had not lunched. It was three o’clock. Munching a biscuit, he drank a glass of sherry, and walked over to the House of Commons. He found it humming in anticipation of a statement. Sitting back, with his legs stretched out, he had qualms. What things had been done in here! The abolitions of Slavery and of Child Labour, the Married Woman’s Property Act, Repeal of the Corn Laws; but could they be done nowadays? And if not–was it a life? He had said to Fleur that you couldn’t change your vocation twice and survive. But did he want to survive? Failing Foggartism–and Foggartism hadn’t failed only because it hadn’t started–what did he really care about?
Leaving the world better than he found it? Sitting there, he couldn’t help perceiving a certain vagueness about such an aspiration, even when confined to England. It was the aspiration of the House of Commons; but in the ebb and flow of Party, it didn’t seem to make much progress. Better to fix on some definite bit of administrative work, stick to it, and get something done. Fleur wanted him to concentrate on Kenya for the Indians. Again rather remote, and having little to do with England. What definite work was most needed in connection with England? Education? Bunkered again! How tell what was the best direction into which to turn education? When they brought in State Education, for instance, they had thought the question settled. Now people were saying that State education had ruined the State. Emigration? Attractive, but negative. Revival of agriculture? Well, the two combined were Foggartism, and he knew by now that nothing but bitter hardship would teach those lessons; you might talk till you were blue in the face without convincing anyone but yourself.
What then?
“I’ve got a topping scheme for airing ‘The Meads’.” The Meads was one of the worst slum parishes in London. ‘Clear the slums!’ thought Michael; ‘that’s practical anyway!’ You could smell the slums, and feel them. They stank and bit and bred corruption. And yet the dwellers therein loved them; or at least preferred them to slums they knew not of! And slum-dwellers were such good sorts! Too bad to play at shuttlecock with them! He must have a talk with Uncle Hilary. Lots of vitality in England still–numbers of red-haired children! But the vitality got sooted as it grew up–like plants in a back garden. Slum clearance, smoke abolition, industrial peace, emigration, agriculture, and safety in the air! ‘Them’s my sentiments!’ thought Michael. ‘And if that isn’t a large enough policy for any man, I’m–!’
He turned his face towards the Statement, and thought of his uncle’s words about this ‘House.’ Were they all really in a state of auto-intoxication here–continual slow poisoning of the tissues? All these chaps around him thought they were doing things. And he looked at the chaps. He knew most of them, and had great respect for many, but collectively he could not deny that they looked a bit dazed. His neighbour to the right was showing his front teeth in an asphyxiated smile. ‘Really,’ he thought; ‘it’s heroic how we all keep awake day after day!’
Chapter VIII.
SECRET
It would not have been natural that Fleur should rejoice in the collapse of the General Strike. A national outlook over such a matter was hardly in her character. Her canteen was completing the re-establishment in her of the social confidence which the Marjorie Ferrar affair had so severely shaken; and to be thoroughly busy with practical matters suited her. Recruited by Norah Curfew, by herself, Michael, and his Aunt Lady Alison Charwell, she had a first-rate crew of helpers of all ages, most of them in Society. They worked in the manner popularly attributed to negroes; they craned at nothing–not even beetles. They got up at, or stayed up to, all hours. They were never cross and always cheery. In a word, they seemed inspired. The difference they had made in the appearance of the railway’s culinary premises was startling to the Company. Fleur herself was ‘on the bridge’ all the time. On her devolved the greasing of the official wheels, the snipping off of red tape in numberless telephonic duels, and the bearding of the managerial face. She had even opened her father’s pocket to supplement the shortcomings she encountered. The volunteers were fed to repletion, and–on Michael’s inspiration–she had undermined the pickets with surreptitious coffee dashed with rum, at odd hours of their wearisome vigils. Her provisioning car, entrusted to Holly, ran the blockade, by leaving and arriving, as though Harridge’s, whence she drew her supplies, were the last place in its thoughts.
“Let us give the strikers,” said Michael, “every possible excuse to wink the other eye.”
The canteen, in fact, was an unqualified success. She had not seen Jon again, but she lived in that peculiar mixture of fear and hope which signifies a real interest in life. On the Friday Holly announced to her that Jon’s wife had arrived–might she bring her down next morning?
“Oh! yes,” said Fleur: “What is she like?”
“Attractive–with eyes like a water-nymph’s or so Jon thinks; but it’s quite the best type of water-nymph.”
“M-m!” said Fleur.
She was checking a list on the telephone next day when Holly brought Anne. About Fleur’s own height, straight and slim, darker in the hair, browner in complexion, browner in the eye (Fleur could see what Holly had meant by “water-nymph”) her nose a little too sudden, her chin pointed and her teeth very white, her successor stood. Did she know that Jon and she–?
And stretching out her free hand, Fleur said:
“I think it’s awfully sporting of you as an American. How’s your brother Francis?”
The hand she squeezed was brown, dry, warm; the voice she heard only faintly American, as if Jon had been at it.
“You were just too good to Francis. He always talks of you. If it hadn’t been for you–”
“That’s nothing. Excuse me… Ye-es?… No! If the Princess comes, ask her to be good enough to come when they’re feeding. Yes–yes–thank you! To-morrow? Certainly… Did you have a good crossing?”
“Frightful! I was glad Jon wasn’t with me. I do so hate being green, don’t you?”
“I never am,” said Fleur.
That girl had Jon to bend above her when she was green! Pretty? Yes. The browned face was very alive–rather like Francis Wilmot’s, but with those enticing eyes, much more eager. What was it about those eyes that made them so unusual and attractive? – surely the suspicion of a squint! She had a way of standing, too–a trick of the neck, the head was beautifully poised. Lovely clothes, of course! Fleur’s glance swept swiftly down to calves and ankles. Not thick, not crooked! No luck!
“I think it’s just wonderful of you to let me come and help.”
“Not a bit. Holly will put you wise.”
“That sounds nice and homey.”
“Oh! We all use your expressions now. Will you take her provisioning, Holly?”
When the girl had gone, under Holly’s wing, Fleur bit her lip. By the uncomplicated glance of Jon’s wife she guessed that Jon had not told her. How awfully young! Fleur felt suddenly as if she herself had never had a youth. Ah! If Jon had not been caught away from her! Her bitten lip quivered, and she buried it in the mouthpiece of the telephone.
Whenever again–three or four times–before the canteen was closed, she saw the girl, she forced herself to be cordial. Instinctively she felt that she must shut no doors on life just now. What Jon’s reappearance meant to her she could not tell; but no one should put a finger this time in whatever pie she chose to make. She was mistress of her face and movements now, as she had never been when she and Jon were babes in the wood. With a warped pleasure she heard Holly’s: “Anne thinks you wonderful, Fleur!” No! Jon had not told his wife about her. It was like him, for the secret had not been his alone! But how long would that girl be left in ignorance? On the day the canteen closed she said to Holly:
“No one has told Jon’s wife that he and I were once in love, I suppose?”
Holly shook her head.
“I’d rather they didn’t, then.”
“Of course not, my dear. I’ll see to it. The child’s nice, I think.”
“Nice,” said Fleur, “but not important.”
“You’ve got to allow for the utter strangeness of everything. Americans are generally important, sooner or later.”
“To themselves,” said Fleur, and saw Holly smile. Feeling that she had revealed a corner of her feelings, she smiled too.
“Well, so long as they get on. They do, I suppose?”
“My dear, I’ve hardly seen Jon, but I should say it’s perfectly successful. Now the strike’s over they’re coming down to us at Wansdon.”
“Good! Well, this is the end of the old canteen. Let’s powder our noses and get out; Father’s waiting for me with the car. Can we drop you?”
“No, thanks; I’ll walk.”
“What? The old gene? Funny how hard things die!”
“Yes; when you’re a Forsyte,” murmured Holly: “You see, we don’t show our feelings. It’s airing them that kills feelings.”
“Ah!” said Fleur: “Well, God bless you, as they say, and give Jon my love. I’d ask them to lunch, but you’re off to Wansdon?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
In the little round mirror Fleur saw her face mask itself more thoroughly, and turned to the door.
“I MAY look in at Aunt Winifred’s, if I’ve time. So long!”
Going down the stairs she thought: ‘So it’s air that kills feelings!’
Soames, in the car, was gazing at Rigg’s back. The fellow was as lean as a rail.
“Finished with that?” he said to her.
“Yes, dear.”
“Good job, too. Wearing yourself to a shadow.”
“Why? Do I look thin, Dad?”
“No,” said Soames, “no. That’s your mother. But you can’t keep on at that rate. Would you like some air? Into the Park, Riggs.”
Passing into that haven, he murmured:
“I remember when your grandmother drove here every day, regular as clockwork. People had habits, then. Shall we stop and have a look at that Memorial affair they made such a fuss about?”
“I’ve seen it, Dad.”
“So have I,” said Soames. “Stunt sculpture! Now, that St. Gaudens statue at Washington WAS something.” And he looked at her sidelong. Thank goodness she didn’t know of the way he had fended her off from young Jon Forsyte over there. She must have heard by now that the fellow was in London, and staying at her Aunt’s too! And now the strike was off, and normal railway services beginning again, he would be at a loose end! But perhaps he would go back to Paris; his mother was there still, he understood. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask. Instinct, however, potent only in his dealings with Fleur, stopped him. If she had seen the young man, she wouldn’t tell him of it. She was looking somehow secret–or was that just imagination?
No! He couldn’t see her thoughts. Good thing, perhaps! Who could afford to have his thoughts seen? The recesses, ramifications, excesses of thought! Only when sieved and filtered was thought fit for exposure. And again Soames looked sidelong at his daughter.
She was thinking, indeed, to purposes that would have upset him. How was she going to see Jon alone before he left for Wansdon? She could call tomorrow, of course, openly at Green Street, and probably NOT see him. She could ask him to lunch in South Square, but hardly without his wife or her own husband. There was, in fact, no way of seeing him alone except by accident. And she began trying to plan one. On the point of perceiving that the essence of an accident was that it could not be planned, she planned it. She would go to Green Street at nine in the morning to consult Holly and Anne on the canteen accounts. After such strenuous days Holly and Anne might surely be breakfasting in bed. Val had gone back to Wansdon, Aunt Winifred never got up! Jon MIGHT be alone! And she turned to Soames:
“Awfully sweet of you, Dad, to be airing me; I AM enjoying it.”
“Like to get out and have a look at the ducks? The swans have got a brood at Mapledurham again this year.”
The swans! How well she remembered the six little grey destroyers following the old swans over the green-tinged water, that six-year-gone summer of her love! Crossing the grass down to the Serpentine, she felt a sort of creeping sweetness. But nobody–nobody should know of what went on inside her. Whatever happened–and, after all, most likely nothing would happen–she would save face this time–strongest motive in the world, as Michael said.
“Your grandfather used to bring me here when I was a shaver,” said her father’s voice beside her. It did not add: “And I used to bring that wife of mine when we were first married.” Irene! She had liked water and trees. She had liked all beauty, and she hadn’t liked him!
“Eton jackets. Sixty years ago and more. Who’d have thought it then?”
“Who’d have thought what, Dad? That Eton jackets would still be in?”
“That chap–Tennyson, wasn’t it? – ‘The old order changeth, giving place to new.’ I can’t see you in high necks and skirts down to your feet, to saying nothing of bustles. Women then were defended up to the nines, but you knew just as much about them as you do now–and that’s precious little.”
“I wonder. Do you think people’s passions are what they used to be, Dad?”
Soames brooded into his hand. Now, why had she said that? He had once told her that a grand passion was a thing of the past, and she had replied that she had one. And suddenly he was back in steamy heat, redolent of earth and potted pelargonium, kicking a hot water pipe in a greenhouse at Mapledurham. Perhaps she’d been right; there was always a lot of human nature about.
“Passions!” he said: “Well, you still read of people putting their heads under the gas. In old days they used to drown themselves. Let’s go and have tea, at that kiosk place.”
When they were seated, and the pigeons were enjoying his cake, he took a long look at her. She had her legs crossed–and very nice they were! – and just that difference in her body from the waist up, from so many young women he saw about. She didn’t sit in a curve, but with a slight hollow in her back, giving the impression of backbone and a poise to her head and neck. She was shingled again–the custom had unexpected life–but, after all, her neck was remarkably white and round. Her face–short, with its firm rounded chin, very little powder and no rouge, with its dark-lashed white lids, clear-glancing hazel eyes, short, straight nose and broad low brow, with the chestnut hair over its ears, and its sensibly kissable mouth–really it was a credit!
“I should think,” he said, “you’d be glad to have more time for Kit again. He’s a rascal. What d’you think he asked me for yesterday–a hammer!”
“Yes; he’s always breaking things up. I smack him as little as possible, but it’s unavoidable at times–nobody else is allowed to. Mother got him used to it while we were away, so he looks on it as all in the day’s work.”
“Children,” said Soames, “are funny things. We weren’t made such a fuss of when I was young.”
“Forgive me, Dad, but I think YOU make more fuss of him than anybody.”
“What?” said Soames: “I?”
“You do exactly as he tells you. Did you give him the hammer?”
“Hadn’t one–what should I carry hammers about for?”
Fleur laughed. “No; but you take him so seriously. Michael takes him ironically.”
“The little chap’s got a twinkle,” said Soames.
“Mercifully. Didn’t you spoil ME, Dad?”
Soames gaped at a pigeon.
“Can’t tell,” he said. “Do you feel spoiled?”
“When I want things, I want things.”
He knew that; but so long as she wanted the right things!
“And when I don’t get them, I’m not safe.”
“Who says that?”
“No one ever says it, but I know it.”
H’m! What was she wanting now? Should he ask? And, as if attending to the crumbs on his lapel, he took ‘a lunar.’ That face of hers, whose eyes for a moment were off guard, was dark with some deep–he couldn’t tell! Secret! That’s what it was!
Chapter IX.
RENCOUNTER
With the canteen accounts in her hand, Fleur stepped out between her tubbed bay-trees. A quarter to nine by Big Ben! Twenty odd minutes to walk across the Green Park! She had drunk her coffee in bed, to elude questions–and there, of course, was Dad with his nose glued to the dining-room window. She waved the accounts, and he withdrew his face as if they had flicked him. He was ever so good, but he shouldn’t always be dusting her–she wasn’t a piece of china!
She walked briskly. She had no honeysuckle sensations this morning, but felt hard and bright. If Jon had come back to England to stay, she must get him over. The sooner the better, without fuss! Passing the geraniums in front of Buckingham Palace, just out and highly scarlet, she felt her blood heating. Not walk so fast or she would arrive damp! The trees were far advanced; the Green Park, under breeze and sun, smelled of grass and leaves. Spring had not smelled so good for years. A longing for the country seized on Fleur. Grass and trees and water–her hours with Jon had been passed among them–one hour in this very Park, before he took her down to Robin Hill! Robin Hill had been sold to some peer or other, and she wished him joy of it–she knew its history as of some unlucky ship! That house had ‘done in’ her father, and Jon’s father, yes–and his grandfather, she believed, to say nothing of herself. One would not be ‘done in’ again so easily! And, passing into Piccadilly, Fleur smiled at her green youth. In the early windows of the Club nicknamed by George Forsyte the ‘Iseeum,’ no one of his compeers sat as yet, above the moving humours of the street, sipping from glass or cup, and puffing his conclusions out in smoke. Fleur could just remember him, her old Cousin George Forsyte, who used to sit there, fleshy and sardonic behind the curving panes; Cousin George, who had owned the ‘White Monkey’ up in Michael’s study. Uncle Montague Dartie, too, whom she remembered because the only time she had seen him he had pinched her in a curving place, saying: “What are little girls made of?” so that she had clapped her hands when she heard that he had broken his neck, soon after; a horrid man, with fat cheeks and a dark moustache, smelling of scent and cigars. Rounding the last corner, she felt breathless. Geraniums were in her Aunt’s window boxes–but not the fuchsias yet. Was THEIR room the one she herself used to have? And, taking her hand from her heart, she rang the bell.
“Ah! Smither, anybody down?”
“Only Mr. Jon’s down yet, Miss Fleur.”
Why did hearts wobble? Sickening–when one was perfectly cool!
“He’ll do for the moment, Smither. Where is he?”
“Having breakfast, Miss Fleur.”
“All right; show me in. I don’t mind having another cup myself.”
Under her breath, she declined the creaking noun who was preceding her to the dining-room: “Smither: O Smither: Of a Smither: To a Smither: A Smither.” Silly!
“Mrs. Michael Mont, Mr. Jon. Shall I get you some fresh coffee, Miss Fleur?”
“No, thank you, Smither.” Stays creaked, the door was shut. Jon was standing up.
“Fleur!”
“Well, Jon?”
She could hold his hand and keep her pallor, though the blood was in HIS cheeks, no longer smudged.
“Did I feed you nicely?”
“Splendidly. How are you, Fleur? Not tired after all that?”
“Not a bit. How did you like stoking?”
“Fine! My engine-driver was a real brick. Anne will be so disappointed; she’s having a lie-off.”
“She was quite a help. Nearly six years, Jon; you haven’t changed much.”
“Nor you.”
“Oh! I have. Out of knowledge.”
“Well, I don’t see it. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes. Sit down and go on with yours. I came round to see Holly about some accounts. Is she in bed, too?”
“I expect so.”
“Well, I’ll go up directly. How does England feel, Jon?”
“Topping. Can’t leave it again. Anne says she doesn’t mind.”
“Where are you going to settle?”
“Somewhere near Val and Holly, if we can get a place, to grow things.”
“Still on growing things?”
“More than ever.”
“How’s the poetry?”
“Pretty dud.”
Fleur quoted:
“‘Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping Spanish city darkened under her white stars.’”
“Good Lord! Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
His eyes were as straight, his lashes as dark as ever.
“Would you like to meet Michael, Jon, and see my infant?”
“Rather!”
“When do you go down to Wansdon?”
“To-morrow or the day after.”
“Then, won’t you both come and lunch tomorrow?”
“We’d love to.”
“Half-past one. Holly and Aunt Winifred, too. Is your mother still in Paris?”
“Yes. She thinks of settling there.”
“Well, Jon–things fall on their feet, don’t they?”
“They do.”
“Shall I give you some more coffee? Aunt Winifred prides herself on her coffee.”
“Fleur, you do look splendid.”
“Thank you! Have you been down to see Robin Hill?”
“Not yet. Some potentate’s got it now.”
“Does your–does Anne find things amusing here?”
“She’s terribly impressed–says we’re a nation of gentlemen. Did you ever think that?”
“Positively–no; comparatively–perhaps.”
“It all smells so good here.”
“The poet’s nose. D’you remember our walk at Wansdon?”
“I remember everything, Fleur.”
“That’s honest. So do I. It took me some time to remember that I’d forgotten. How long did it take you?”
“Still longer, I expect.”
“Well, Michael’s the best male I know.”
“Anne’s the best female.”
“How fortunate–isn’t it? How old is she?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Just right for you. Even if we hadn’t been star-crossed, I was always too old for you. God! Weren’t we young fools?”
“I don’t see that. It was natural–it was beautiful.”
“Still got ideals? Marmalade? It’s Oxford.”
“Yes. They can’t make marmalade out of Oxford.”
“Jon, your hair grows exactly as it used to. Have you noticed mine?”
“I’ve been trying to.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Not so much, quite; and yet–”
“You mean I shouldn’t look well out of the fashion. Very acute! You don’t mind HER being shingled, apparently.”
“It suits Anne.”
“Did her brother tell you much about me?”
“He said you had a lovely house; and nursed him like an angel.”
“Not like an angel; like a young woman of fashion. There’s still a difference.”
“Anne was awfully grateful for that. She’s told you?”
“Yes. But I’m afraid, between us, we sent Francis home rather cynical. Cynicism grows here; d’you notice it in me?”
“I think you put it on.”
“My dear! I take it off when I talk to you. You were always an innocent. Don’t smile–you were! That’s why you were well rid of me. Well, I never thought I should see you again.”
“Nor I. I’m sorry Anne’s not down.”
“You’ve never told her about me.”
“How did you know that?”
“By the way she looks at me.”
“Why should I tell her?”
“No reason in the world. Let the dead past–It’s fun to see you again, though. Shake hands. I’m going up to Holly now.”
Their hands joined over the marmalade on his plate.
“We’re not children now, Jon. Till tomorrow, then! You’ll like my house. A revederci!”
Going up the stairs she thought with resolution about nothing.
“Can I come in, Holly?”
“Fleur! My dear!”
That thin, rather sallow face, so charmingly intelligent, was propped against a pillow. Fleur had the feeling that, of all people, it was most difficult to keep one’s thoughts from Holly.
“These accounts,” she said. “I’m to see that official ass at ten. Did you order all these sides of bacon?”
The thin sallow hand took the accounts, and between the large grey eyes came a furrow.
“Nine? No–yes; that’s right. Have you seen Jon?”
“Yes; he’s the only early bird. Will you all come to lunch with us tomorrow?”
“If you think it’ll be wise, Fleur.”
“I think it’ll be pleasant.”
She met the search of the grey eyes steadily, and with secret anger. No one should see into her–no one should interfere!
“All right then, we’ll expect you all four at one-thirty. I must run now.”
She did run; but since she really had no appointment with any “official ass,” she went back into the Green Park and sat down.
So that was Jon–now! Terribly like Jon–then! His eyes deeper, his chin more obstinate–that perhaps was all the difference. He still had his sunny look; he still believed in things. He still–admired her. Ye-es! A little wind talked above her in a tree. The day was surprisingly fine–the first really fine day since Easter! What should she give them for lunch? How should she deal with Dad? He must not be there! To have perfect command of oneself was all very well; to have perfect command of one’s father was not so easy. A pattern of leaves covered her short skirt, the sun warmed her knees; she crossed them and leaned back. Eve’s first costume–a pattern of leaves… “Wise?” Holly had said, Who knew? Shrimp cocktails? No! English food. Pancakes–certainly!… To get rid of Dad, she must propose herself with Kit at Mapledurham for the day after; then he would go, to prepare for them. Her mother was still in France. The others would be gone to Wansdon. Nothing to wait for in town. A nice warm sun on her neck. A scent of grass–of honeysuckle!
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20