had no
eyes, and no grin, and he ate it hastily.

"Jon is going to be a farmer," he heard Holly say; "a farmer and a poet."

He glanced up reproachfully, caught the comic lift of her eyebrow just
like their father's, laughed, and felt better.

Val recounted the incident of Monsieur Prosper Profond; nothing could
have been more favourable, for, in relating it, he regarded Holly, who in
turn regarded him, while Fleur seemed to be regarding with a slight frown
some thought of her own, and Jon was really free to look at her at last.
She had on a white frock, very simple and well made; her arms were bare,
and her hair had a white rose in it. In just that swift moment of free
vision, after such intense discomfort, Jon saw her sublimated, as one
sees in the dark a slender white fruit-tree; caught her like a verse of
poetry flashed before the eyes of the mind, or a tune which floats out in
the distance and dies. He wondered giddily how old she was--she seemed so
much more self-possessed and experienced than himself. Why mustn't he
say they had met? He remembered suddenly his mother's face; puzzled,
hurt-looking, when she answered: "Yes, they're relations, but we don't
know them." Impossible that his mother, who loved beauty, should not
admire Fleur if she did know her.

Alone with Val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and answered
the advances of this new-found brother-in-law. As to riding (always the
first consideration with Val) he could have the young chestnut, saddle
and unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it when he brought it
in. Jon said he was accustomed to all that at home, and saw that he had
gone up one in his host's estimation.

"Fleur," said Val, "can't ride much yet, but she's keen. Of course, her
father doesn't know a horse from a cart-wheel. Does your Dad ride?"

"He used to; but now he's--you know, he's--" He stopped, so hating the
word "old." His father was old, and yet not old; no--never!

"Quite," muttered Val. "I used to know your brother up at Oxford, ages
ago, the one who died in the Boer War. We had a fight in New College
Gardens. That was a queer business," he added, musing; "a good deal came
out of it."

Jon's eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical research,
when his sister's voice said gently from the doorway:

"Come along, you two," and he rose, his heart pushing him toward
something far more modern.

Fleur having declared that it was "simpl