pire. In that old war, of course, his nephew Val Dartie had been
wounded, that fellow Jolyon's first son had died of enteric, "the
Dromios" had gone out on horses, and June had been a nurse; but all that
had seemed in the nature of a portent, while in this war everybody had
done "their bit," so far as he could make out, as a matter of course. It
seemed to show the growth of something or other--or perhaps the decline
of something else. Had the Forsytes become less individual, or more
Imperial, or less provincial? Or was it simply that one hated
Germans?... Why didn't Fleur come, so that he could get away? He saw
those three return together from the other room and pass back along the
far side of the screen. The boy was standing before the Juno now. And,
suddenly, on the other side of her, Soames saw--his daughter, with
eyebrows raised, as well they might be. He could see her eyes glint
sideways at the boy, and the boy look back at her. Then Irene slipped
her hand through his arm, and drew him on. Soames saw him glancing
round, and Fleur looking after them as the three went out.

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: "Hallo, Father! Here you are!" precisely as if he
had been keeping her waiting.

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 colour,
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 dragge