ted, as
one sees in the dark a slender white fruit-tree; caught her like a verse
of poetry flashed before the eyes of the mind, or a tune which floats
out in the distance and dies. He wondered giddily how old she was--she
seemed so much more self-possessed and experienced than himself. Why
mustn't he say they had met? He remembered suddenly his mother's face;
puzzled, hurt-looking, when she answered: "Yes, they're relations,
but we don't know them." Impossible that his mother, who loved beauty,
should not admire Fleur if she did know her.

Alone with Val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and answered
the advances of this new-found brother-in-law. As to riding (always the
first consideration with Val) he could have the young chestnut, saddle
and unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it when he brought it
in. Jon said he was accustomed to all that at home, and saw that he had
gone up one in his host's estimation.

"Fleur," said Val, "can't ride much yet, but she's keen. Of course, her
father doesn't know a horse from a cart-wheel. Does your Dad ride?"

"He used to; but now he's--you know, he's--" He stopped, so hating the
word "old." His father was old, and yet not old; no--never!

"Quite," muttered Val. "I used to know your brother up at Oxford, ages
ago, the one who died in the Boer War. We had a fight in New College
Gardens. That was a queer business," he added, musing; "a good deal came
out of it."

Jon's eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical research,
when his sister's voice said gently from the doorway:

"Come along, you two," and he rose, his heart pushing him toward
something far more modern.

Fleur having declared that it was "simply too wonderful to stay
indoors," they all went out. Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an old
sundial threw a long shadow. Two box hedges at right angles, dark
and square, barred off the orchard. Fleur turned through that angled
opening.

"Come on!" she called. Jon glanced at the others, and followed. She was
running among the trees like a ghost. All was lovely and foamlike above
her, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of nettles. She vanished.
He thought he had lost her, then almost ran into her standing quite
still.

"Isn't it jolly?" she cried, and Jon answered:

"Rather!"

She reached up, twisted off a blossom and, twirling it in her fingers,
said:

"I suppose I can call you Jon?"

"I should think so just."

"All right!