"I believe not very; but I can try."

Fleur frowned.

"You know," she said, "I realize that they don't mean us to be friends."

"Why not?"

"I told you why."

"But that's silly."

"Yes; but you don't know my father!"

"I suppose he's fearfully fond of you."

"You see, I'm an only child. And so are you--of your mother. Isn't it a
bore? There's so much expected of one. By the time they've done
expecting, one's as good as dead."

"Yes," muttered Jon, "life's beastly short. One wants to live forever,
and know everything."

"And love everybody?"

"No," cried Jon; "I only want to love once--you."

"Indeed! You're coming on! Oh! Look! There's the chalk-pit; we can't
be very far now. Let's run."

Jon followed, wondering fearfully if he had offended her.

The chalk-pit was full of sunshine and the murmuration of bees. Fleur
flung back her hair.

"Well," she said, "in case of accidents, you may give me one kiss, Jon,"
and she pushed her cheek forward. With ecstasy he kissed that hot soft
cheek.

"Now, remember! We lost our way; and leave it to me as much as you can.
I'm going to be rather beastly to you; it's safer; try and be beastly to
me!"

Jon shook his head. "That's impossible."

"Just to please me; till five o'clock, at all events."

"Anybody will be able to see through it," said Jon gloomily.

"Well, do your best. Look! There they are! Wave your hat! Oh! you
haven't got one. Well, I'll cooee! Get a little away from me, and look
sulky."

Five minutes later, entering the house and doing his utmost to look
sulky, Jon heard her clear voice in the dining-room:

"Oh! I'm simply ravenous! He's going to be a farmer--and he loses his
way! The boy's an idiot!"

IX

GOYA

Lunch was over and Soames mounted to the picture-gallery in his house
near Mapleduram. He had what Annette called "a grief." Fleur was not
yet home. She had been expected on Wednesday; had wired that it would be
Friday; and again on Friday that it would be Sunday afternoon; and here
were her aunt, and her cousins the Cardigans, and this fellow Profond,
and everything flat as a pancake for the want of her. He stood before
his Gauguin--sorest point of his collection. He had bought the ugly great
thing with two early Matisses before the War, because there was such a
fuss about those Post-Impressionist chaps. He was wondering whether
Profond would take them off his hands--the fellow seemed not to know wh