ay something, but all
his attention was given to trying not to hurt her hands. His own felt so
hard and hers so soft. She said almost defiantly:

"That old story--was it so very dreadful?"

"Yes." In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance.

She dragged her hands away. "I didn't think in these days boys were tied
to their mothers' apron-strings."

Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck.

"Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!" Swiftly she
came close to him. "Jon, dear; I didn't mean it."

"All right."

She had put her two hands on his shoulder, and her forehead down on
them; the brim of her hat touched his neck, and he felt it quivering.
But, in a sort of paralysis, he made no response. She let go of his
shoulder and drew away.

"Well, I'll go, if you don't want me. But I never thought you'd have
given me up."

"I haven't," cried Jon, coming suddenly to life. "I can't. I'll try
again."

Her eyes gleamed, she swayed toward him. "Jon--I love you! Don't give
me up! If you do, I don't know what--I feel so desperate. What does it
matter--all that past-compared with this?"

She clung to him. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. But while he
kissed her he saw, the sheets of that letter fallen down on the floor
of his bedroom--his father's white dead face--his mother kneeling
before it. Fleur's whispered, "Make her! Promise! Oh! Jon, try!" seemed
childish in his ear. He felt curiously old.

"I promise!" he muttered. "Only, you don't understand."

"She wants to spoil our lives, just because--"

"Yes, of what?"

Again that challenge in his voice, and she did not answer. Her arms
tightened round him, and he returned her kisses; but even while he
yielded, the poison worked in him, the poison of the letter. Fleur did
not know, she did not understand--she misjudged his mother; she came
from the enemy's camp! So lovely, and he loved her so--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,
flutterin