he more human and generous you are the better chance
you've got in business."

Soames rose.

"Are you a partner?"

"Not for six months, yet."

"The rest of the firm had better make haste and retire."

Mont laughed.

"You'll see," he said. "There's going to be a big change. The possessive
principle has got its shutters up."

"What?" said Soames.

"The house is to let! Good-bye, sir; I'm off now."

Soames watched his daughter give her hand, saw her wince at the squeeze
it received, and distinctly heard the young man's sigh as he passed out.
Then she came from the window, trailing her finger along the mahogany
edge of the billiard-table. Watching her, Soames knew that she was going
to ask him something. Her finger felt round the last pocket, and she
looked up.

"Have you done anything to stop Jon writing to me, Father?"

Soames shook his head.

"You haven't seen, then?" he said. "His father died just a week ago
to-day."

"Oh!"

In her startled, frowning face he saw the instant struggle to apprehend
what this would mean.

"Poor Jon! Why didn't you tell me, Father?"

"I never know!" said Soames slowly; "you don't confide in me."

"I would, if you'd help me, dear."

"Perhaps I shall."

Fleur clasped her hands. "Oh! darling--when one wants a thing fearfully,
one doesn't think of other people. Don't be angry with me."

Soames put out his hand, as if pushing away an aspersion.

"I'm cogitating," he said. What on earth had made him use a word like
that! "Has young Mont been bothering you again?"

Fleur smiled. "Oh! Michael! He's always bothering; but he's such a good
sort--I don't mind him."

"Well," said Soames, "I'm tired; I shall go and have a nap before
dinner."

He went up to his picture-gallery, lay down on the couch there, and
closed his eyes. A terrible responsibility this girl of his--whose
mother was--ah! what was she? A terrible responsibility! Help her--how
could he help her? He could not alter the fact that he was her father.
Or that Irene--! What was it young Mont had said--some nonsense about
the possessive instinct--shutters up--To let? Silly!

The sultry air, charged with a scent of meadow-sweet, of river and
roses, closed on his senses, drowsing them.

V.--THE FIXED IDEA

"The fixed idea," which has outrun more constables than any other form
of human disorder, has never more speed and stamina than when it takes
the avid guise of love. To hedges and ditches, and doors,