."

"It's supposed to be satiric, isn't it?" said Fleur.

He saw his father's smile.

"Satiric? Oh! I think it's more than that. What do you say, Jon?"

"I don't know at all," stammered Jon. His father's face had a sudden
grimness.

"The young are tired of us, our gods and our ideals. Off with their
heads, they say--smash their idols! And let's get back to-nothing! And,
by Jove, they've done it! Jon's a poet. He'll be going in, too, and
stamping on what's left of us. Property, beauty, sentiment--all smoke.
We mustn't own anything nowadays, not even our feelings. They stand in
the way of--Nothing."

Jon listened, bewildered, almost outraged by his father's words, behind
which he felt a meaning that he could not reach. He didn't want to stamp
on anything!

"Nothing's the god of to-day," continued Jolyon; "we're back where the
Russians were sixty years ago, when they started Nihilism."

"No, Dad," cried Jon suddenly, "we only want to live, and we don't know
how, because of the Past--that's all!"

"By George!" said Jolyon, "that's profound, Jon. Is it your own? The
Past! Old ownerships, old passions, and their aftermath. Let's have
cigarettes."

Conscious that his mother had lifted her hand to her lips, quickly, as if
to hush something, Jon handed the cigarettes. He lighted his father's
and Fleur's, then one for himself. Had he taken the knock that Val had
spoken of? The smoke was blue when he had not puffed, grey when he had;
he liked the sensation in his nose, and the sense of equality it gave
him. He was glad no one said: "So you've begun!" He felt less young.

Fleur looked at her watch, and rose. His mother went with her into the
house. Jon stayed with his father, puffing at the cigarette.

"See her into the car, old man," said Jolyon; "and when she's gone, ask
your mother to come back to me."

Jon went. He waited in the hall. He saw her into the car. There was no
chance for any word; hardly for a pressure of the hand. He waited all
that evening for something to be said to him. Nothing was said. Nothing
might have happened. He went up to bed, and in the mirror on his
dressing-table met himself. He did not speak, nor did the image; but
both looked as if they thought the more.

IV

IN GREEN STREET

Uncertain whether the impression that Prosper Profond was dangerous
should be traced to his attempt to give Val the Mayfly filly; to a remark
of Fleur's: "He's like the hosts