at
to do with his money--when he heard his sister's voice say: "I think
that's a horrid thing, Soames," and saw that Winifred had followed him
up.

"Oh! you do?" he said dryly; "I gave five hundred for it."

"Fancy! Women aren't made like that even if they are black."

Soames uttered a glum laugh. "You didn't come up to tell me that."

"No. Do you know that Jolyon's boy is staying with Val and his wife?"

Soames spun round.

"What?"

"Yes," drawled Winifred; "he's gone to live with them there while he
learns farming."

Soames had turned away, but her voice pursued him as he walked up and
down. "I warned Val that neither of them was to be spoken to about old
matters."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

Winifred shrugged her substantial shoulders.

"Fleur does what she likes. You've always spoiled her. Besides, my dear
boy, what's the harm?"

"The harm!" muttered Soames. "Why, she--" he checked himself. The Juno,
the handkerchief, Fleur's eyes, her questions, and now this delay in her
return--the symptoms seemed to him so sinister that, faithful to his
nature, he could not part with them.

"I think you take too much care," said Winifred. "If I were you, I
should tell her of that old matter. It's no good thinking that girls in
these days are as they used to be. Where they pick up their knowledge I
can't tell, but they seem to know everything."

Over Soames' face, closely composed, passed a sort of spasm, and Winifred
added hastily:

"If you don't like to speak of it, I could for you."

Soames shook his head. Unless there was absolute necessity the thought
that his adored daughter should learn of that old scandal hurt his pride
too much.

"No," he said, "not yet. Never if I can help it.

"Nonsense, my dear. Think what people are!"

"Twenty years is a long time," muttered Soames. "Outside our family,
who's likely to remember?"

Winifred was silenced. She inclined more and more to that peace and
quietness of which Montague Dartie had deprived her in her youth. And,
since pictures always depressed her, she soon went down again.

Soames passed into the corner where, side by side, hung his real Goya and
the copy of the fresco "La Vendimia." His acquisition of the real Goya
rather beautifully illustrated the cobweb of vested interests and
passions which mesh the bright-winged fly of human life. The real Goya's
noble owner's ancestor had come into possession of it during some Spanish