-yet, even in her
embrace, he could not help the memory of Holly's words: "I think she has
a 'having' nature," and his mother's "My darling boy, don't think of
me--think of yourself!"

When she was gone like a passionate dream, leaving her image on his eyes,
her kisses on his lips, such an ache in his heart, Jon leaned in the
window, listening to the car bearing her away. Still the scent as of
warm strawberries, still the little summer sounds that should make his
song; still all the promise of youth and happiness in sighing, floating,
fluttering July--and his heart torn; yearning strong in him; hope high in
him yet with its eyes cast down, as if ashamed. The miserable task
before him! If Fleur was desperate, so was he--watching the poplars
swaying, the white clouds passing, the sunlight on the grass.

He waited till evening, till after their almost silent dinner, till his
mother had played to him and still he waited, feeling that she knew what
he was waiting to say. She kissed him and went up-stairs, and still he
lingered, watching the moonlight and the moths, and that unreality of
colouring which steals along and stains a summer night. And he would have
given anything to be back again in the past--barely three months back; or
away forward, years, in the future. The present with this dark cruelty
of a decision, one way or the other, seemed impossible. He realised now
so much more keenly what his mother felt than he had at first; as if the
story in that letter had been a poisonous germ producing a kind of fever
of partisanship, so that he really felt there were two camps, his
mother's and his--Fleur's and her father's. It might be a dead thing,
that old tragic ownership and enmity, but dead things were poisonous till
time had cleaned them away. Even his love felt tainted, less illusioned,
more of the earth, and with a treacherous lurking doubt lest Fleur, like
her father, might want to own; not articulate, just a stealing haunt,
horribly unworthy, which crept in and about the ardour of his memories,
touched with its tarnishing breath the vividness and grace of that
charmed face and figure--a doubt, not real enough to convince him of its
presence, just real enough to deflower a perfect faith. And perfect
faith, to Jon, not yet twenty, was essential. He still had Youth's
eagerness to give with both hands, to take with neither--to give
lovingly to one who had his own impulsive generosity. Surely she had!
He got u