s of the Empire. In that old war, of
course, his nephew Val Dartie had been wounded, that fellow Jolyon's
first son had died of enteric, "the Dromios" had gone out on horses,
and June had been a nurse; but all that had seemed in the nature of a
portent, while in THIS war everybody had done "their bit," so far as he
could make out, as a matter of course. It seemed to show the growth of
something or other--or perhaps the decline of something else. Had the
Forsytes become less individual, or more Imperial, or less provincial?
Or was it simply that one hated Germans?... Why didn't Fleur come, so
that he could get away? He saw those three return together from the
other room and pass back along the far side of the screen. The boy was
standing before the Juno now. And, suddenly, on the other side of her,
Soames saw--his daughter with eyebrows raised, as well they might be.
He could see her eyes glint sideways at the boy, and the boy look back
at her. Then Irene slipped her hand through his arm, and drew him on.
Soames saw him glancing round, and Fleur looking after them as the
three went out.

A voice said cheerfully: "Bit thick, isn't it, sir?"

The young man who had handed him his handkerchief was again passing.
Soames nodded.

"I don't know what we're coming to."

"Oh! That's all right, sir," answered the young man cheerfully; "they
don't either."

Fleur's voice said, precisely as if he had been keeping her waiting:

"Hallo, Father! There you are!"

The young man, snatching off his hat, passed on.

"Well," said Soames, looking her up and down, "you're a punctual sort
of young woman!"

This treasured possession of his life was of medium height and color,
with short, dark-chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes were set in
whites so clear that they glinted when they moved, and yet in repose
were almost dreamy under very white, black-lashed lids, held over them
in a sort of suspense. She had a charming profile, and nothing of her
father in her face save a decided chin. Aware that his expression was
softening as he looked at her, Soames frowned to preserve the
unemotionalism proper to a Forsyte. He knew she was only too inclined
to take advantage of his weakness.

Slipping her hand under his arm, she said:

"Who was that?"

"He picked up my handkerchief. We talked about the pictures."

"You're not going to buy THAT, Father?"

"No," said Soames grimly; "nor that Juno you've been looking at."

Fleur dragged a