right to spoil their love; he must see that! They
could not let it! People always accepted an accomplished fact in time!
From that piece of philosophy--profound enough at her age--she passed to
another consideration less philosophic. If she persuaded Jon to a quick
and secret marriage, and he found out afterward that she had known the
truth. What then? Jon hated subterfuge. Again, then, would it not be
better to tell him? But the memory of his mother's face kept intruding
on that impulse. Fleur was afraid. His mother had power over him; more
power perhaps than she herself. Who could tell? It was too great a
risk. Deep-sunk in these instinctive calculations she was carried on past
Green Street as far as the Ritz Hotel. She got down there, and walked
back on the Green Park side. The storm had washed every tree; they still
dripped. Heavy drops fell on to her frills, and to avoid them she
crossed over under the eyes of the Iseeum Club. Chancing to look up she
saw Monsieur Profond with a tall stout man in the bay window. Turning
into Green Street she heard her name called, and saw "that prowler"
coming up. He took off his hat--a glossy "bowler" such as she
particularly detested.

"Good evenin'! Miss Forsyde. Isn't there a small thing I can do for
you?"

"Yes, pass by on the other side."

"I say! Why do you dislike me?"

"Do I?"

"It looks like it."

"Well, then, because you make me feel life isn't worth living."

Monsieur Profond smiled.

"Look here, Miss Forsyde, don't worry. It'll be all right. Nothing
lasts."

"Things do last," cried Fleur; "with me anyhow--especially likes and
dislikes."

"Well, that makes me a bit un'appy."

"I should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or unhappy."

"I don't like to annoy other people. I'm goin' on my yacht."

Fleur looked at him, startled.

"Where?"

"Small voyage to the South Seas or somewhere," said Monsieur Profond.

Fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult. Clearly he meant to convey
that he was breaking with her mother. How dared he have anything to
break, and yet how dared he break it?

"Good-night, Miss Forsyde! Remember me to Mrs. Dartie. I'm not so bad
really. Good-night!" Fleur left him standing there with his hat raised.
Stealing a look round, she saw him stroll--immaculate and heavy--back
toward his Club.

'He can't even love with conviction,' she thought. 'What will Mother
do?'

Her dreams that night wer