passed through drawing-room, hall, and
porch out onto the drive, and stood there listening for the car. All
was still and Sunday-fied; the lilacs in full flower scented the air.
There were white clouds, like the feathers of ducks gilded by the
sunlight. Memory of the day when Fleur was born, and he had waited in
such agony with her life and her mother's balanced in his hands, came
to him sharply. He had saved her then, to be the flower of his life.
And now! Was she going to give him trouble--pain--give him trouble? He
did not like the look of things! A blackbird broke in on his reverie
with an evening song--a great big fellow up in that acacia-tree. Soames
had taken quite an interest in his birds of late years; he and Fleur
would walk round and watch them; her eyes were sharp as needles, and
she knew every nest. He saw her dog, a retriever, lying on the drive in
a patch of sunlight, and called to him, "Hallo, old fellow--waiting for
her too!" The dog came slowly with a grudging tail, and Soames
mechanically laid a pat on his head. The dog, the bird, the lilac all
were part of Fleur for him; no more, no less. 'Too fond of her!' he
thought, 'too fond!' He was like a man uninsured, with his ships at
sea. Uninsured again--as in that other time, so long ago, when he would
wander dumb and jealous in the wilderness of London, longing for that
woman--his first wife--he mother of this infernal boy. Ah! There was
the car at last! It drew up, it had luggage, but no Fleur.

"Miss Fleur is walking up, sir, by the towing-path"

Walking all those miles? Soames stared. The man's face had the
beginning of a smile on it. What was he grinning at? And very quickly
he turned, saying: "All right, Sims!" and went into the house. He
mounted to the picture-gallery once more. He had from there a view of
the river bank, and stood with his eyes fixed on it, oblivious of the
fact that it would be an hour at least before her figure showed there.
Walking up! And that fellow's grin! The boy--! He turned abruptly from
the window. He couldn't spy on her. If she wanted to keep things from
him--she must; he could not spy on her. His heart felt empty; and
bitterness mounted from it into his very mouth. The staccato shouts of
Jack Cardigan pursuing the ball, the laugh of young Mont rose in the
stillness and came in. He hoped they were making that chap Profond run.
And the girl in "La Vendimia" stood with her arm akimbo and her dreamy
eyes looking past him