till no Fleur, all the old car-wise feelings he had experienced in
person and by proxy balled within him, and sinking sensations troubled
the pit of his stomach. At seven he telephoned to Winifred by trunk
call. No! Fleur had not been to Green Street. Then where was she?
Visions of his beloved daughter rolled up in her pretty frills, all
blood and dust-stained, in some hideous catastrophe, began to haunt
him. He went to her room and spied among her things. She had taken
nothing--no dressing-case, no Jewellery. And this, a relief in one
sense, increased his fears of an accident. Terrible to be helpless when
his loved one was missing, especially when he couldn't bear fuss
or publicity of any kind! What should he do if she were not back by
nightfall?

At a quarter to eight he heard the car. A great weight lifted from off
his heart; he hurried down. She was getting out--pale and tired-looking,
but nothing wrong. He met her in the hall.

"You've frightened me. Where have you been?"

"To Robin Hill. I'm sorry, dear. I had to go; I'll tell you afterward."
And, with a flying kiss, she ran up-stairs.

Soames waited in the drawing-room. To Robin Hill! What did that portend?

It was not a subject they could discuss at dinner--consecrated to the
susceptibilities of the butler. The agony of nerves Soames had been
through, the relief he felt at her safety, softened his power to condemn
what she had done, or resist what she was going to do; he waited in a
relaxed stupor for her revelation. Life was a queer business. There he
was at sixty-five and no more in command of things than if he had not
spent forty years in building up security-always something one couldn't
get on terms with! In the pocket of his dinner-jacket was a letter from
Annette. She was coming back in a fortnight. He knew nothing of what she
had been doing out there. And he was glad that he did not. Her absence
had been a relief. Out of sight was out of mind! And now she was coming
back. Another worry! And the Bolderby Old Crome was gone--Dumetrius
had got it--all because that anonymous letter had put it out of his
thoughts. He furtively remarked the strained look on his daughter's
face, as if she too were gazing at a picture that she couldn't buy.
He almost wished the War back. Worries didn't seem, then, quite so
worrying. From the caress in her voice, the look on her face, he became
certain that she wanted something from him, uncertain whether it would
be wise of