into the
flesh of her heart--like some burrowing tick!

No one was at Green Street. Winifred had gone with Imogen to see a play
which some said was allegorical, and others "very exciting, don't you
know." It was because of what others said that Winifred and Imogen had
gone. Fleur went on to Paddington. Through the carriage the air from
the brick-kilns of West Drayton and the late hayfields fanned her still
gushed cheeks. Flowers had seemed to be had for the picking; now they
were all thorned and prickled. But the golden flower within the crown of
spikes seemed to her tenacious spirit all the fairer and more desirable.

IX

THE FAT IN THE FIRE

On reaching home Fleur found an atmosphere so peculiar that it penetrated
even the perplexed aura of her own private life. Her mother was
inaccessibly entrenched in a brown study; her father contemplating fate
in the vinery. Neither of them had a word to throw to a dog. 'Is it
because of me?' thought Fleur. 'Or because of Profond?' To her mother
she said:

"What's the matter with Father?"

Her mother answered with a shrug of her shoulders.

To her father:

"What's the matter with Mother?"

Her father answered:

"Matter? What should be the matter?" and gave her a sharp look.

"By the way," murmured Fleur, "Monsieur Profond is going a 'small' voyage
on his yacht, to the South Seas."

Soames examined a branch on which no grapes were growing.

"This vine's a failure," he said. "I've had young Mont here. He asked
me something about you."

"Oh! How do you like him, Father?"

"He--he's a product--like all these young people."

"What were you at his age, dear?"

Soames smiled grimly.

"We went to work, and didn't play about--flying and motoring, and making
love."

"Didn't you ever make love?"

She avoided looking at him while she said that, but she saw him well
enough. His pale face had reddened, his eyebrows, where darkness was
still mingled with the grey, had come close together.

"I had no time or inclination to philander."

"Perhaps you had a grand passion."

Soames looked at her intently.

"Yes--if you want to know--and much good it did me." He moved away,
along by the hot-water pipes. Fleur tiptoed silently after him.

"Tell me about it, Father!"

Soames became very still.

"What should you want to know about such things, at your age?"

"Is she alive?"

He nodded.

"And married?" Yes."

"It's Jon Forsyte's mother, i