nced
with Jenny Diver, postured with Lucy Lockit, kissed, trolled, and cuddled
with Macheath. Her lips might smile, her hands applaud, but the comic
old masterpiece made no more impression on her than if it had been
pathetic, like a modern "Revue." When they embarked in the car to
return, she ached because Jon was not sitting next her instead of Michael
Mont. When, at some jolt, the young man's arm touched hers as if by
accident, she only thought: 'If that were Jon's arm!' When his cheerful
voice, tempered by her proximity, murmured above the sound of the car's
progress, she smiled and answered, thinking: 'If that were Jon's voice!'
and when once he said, "Fleur, you look a perfect angel in that dress!"
she answered, "Oh, do you like it?" thinking, 'If only Jon could see it!'

During this drive she took a resolution. She would go to Robin Hill and
see him--alone; she would take the car, without word beforehand to him or
to her father. It was nine days since his letter, and she could wait no
longer. On Monday she would go! The decision made her well disposed
toward young Mont. With something to look forward to she could afford to
tolerate and respond. He might stay to dinner; propose to her as usual;
dance with her, press her hand, sigh--do what he liked. He was only a
nuisance when he interfered with her fixed idea. She was even sorry for
him so far as it was possible to be sorry for anybody but herself just
now. At dinner he seemed to talk more wildly than usual about what he
called "the death of the close borough"--she paid little attention, but
her father seemed paying a good deal, with the smile on his face which
meant opposition, if not anger.

"The younger generation doesn't think as you do, sir; does it, Fleur?"

Fleur shrugged her shoulders--the younger generation was just Jon, and
she did not know what he was thinking.

"Young people will think as I do when they're my age, Mr. Mont. Human
nature doesn't change."

"I admit that, sir; but the forms of thought change with the times. The
pursuit of self-interest is a form of thought that's going out."

"Indeed! To mind one's own business is not a form of thought, Mr. Mont,
it's an instinct."

Yes, when Jon was the business!

"But what is one's business, sir? That's the point. Everybody's
business is going to be one's business. Isn't it, Fleur?"

Fleur only smiled.

"If not," added young Mont, "there'll be blood."

"People have talked l