young man looked so doleful
that Soames smiled.

"You may think you're very old," he said; "but you strike me as extremely
young. To rattle ahead of everything is not a proof of maturity."

"All right, sir; I give you our age. But to show you I mean
business--I've got a job."

"Glad to hear it."

"Joined a publisher; my governor is putting up the stakes."

Soames put his hand over his mouth--he had so very nearly said: "God help
the publisher!" His grey eyes scrutinised the agitated young man.

"I don't dislike you, Mr. Mont, but Fleur is everything to me:
Everything--do you understand?"

"Yes, sir, I know; but so she is to me."

"That's as may be. I'm glad you've told me, however. And now I think
there's nothing more to be said."

"I know it rests with her, sir."

"It will rest with her a long time, I hope."

"You aren't cheering," said Mont suddenly.

"No," said Soames, "my experience of life has not made me anxious to
couple people in a hurry. Good-night, Mr. Mont. I shan't tell Fleur
what you've said."

"Oh!" murmured Mont blankly; "I really could knock my brains out for want
of her. She knows that perfectly well."

"I dare say." And Soames held out his hand. A distracted squeeze, a
heavy sigh, and soon after sounds from the young man's motor-cycle called
up visions of flying dust and broken bones.

'The younger generation!' he thought heavily, and went out on to the
lawn. The gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell of
fresh-cut grass--the thundery air kept all scents close to earth. The sky
was of a purplish hue--the poplars black. Two or three boats passed on
the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm. 'Three
days' fine weather,' thought Soames, 'and then a storm!' Where was
Annette? With that chap, for all he knew--she was a young woman!
Impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he entered the
summerhouse and sat down. The fact was--and he admitted it--Fleur was so
much to him that his wife was very little--very little; French--had never
been much more than a mistress, and he was getting indifferent to that
side of things! It was odd how, with all this ingrained care for
moderation and secure investment, Soames ever put his emotional eggs into
one basket. First Irene--now Fleur. He was dimly conscious of it,
sitting there, conscious of its odd dangerousness. It had brought him to
wreck and scandal once, but now--now it should sav