d 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 extravagant, 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, she 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-in-law's head. The French pr