nd she smiled to herself on the top of the 'bus which
carried her back to Mayfair. But the smile died, squeezed out by spasms
of anticipation and anxiety. Would she be able to manage Jon? She had
taken the bit between her teeth, but could she make him take it too?
She knew the truth and the real danger of delay--he knew neither;
therein lay all the difference in the world.

'Suppose I tell him,' she thought; 'wouldn't it really be safer?' This
hideous luck had no right to spoil their love; he must see that! They
could not let it! People always accepted an accomplished fact, in time!
From that piece of philosophy--profound enough at her age--she passed
to another consideration less philosophic. If she persuaded Jon to a
quick and secret marriage, and he found out afterwards that she had
known the truth! What then? Jon hated subterfuge. Again, then, would it
not be better to tell him? But the memory of his mother's face kept
intruding on that impulse. Fleur was afraid. His mother had power over
him; more power perhaps than she herself. Who could tell? It was too
great a risk. Deep-sunk in these instinctive calculations she was
carried on past Green Street as far as the Ritz Hotel. She got down
there, and walked back on the Green Park side. The storm had washed
every tree; they still dripped. Heavy drops fell on to her frills, and
to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes of the Iseeum Club.
Chancing to look up she saw Monsieur Profond with a tall stout man in
the bay window. Turning into Green Street she heard her name called,
and saw "that prowler" coming up. He took off his hat--a glossy
"bowler" such as she particularly detested:

"Good-evenin'! Miss Forsyde. Isn't there a small thing I can do for
you?"

"Yes, pass by on the other side."

"I say! Why do you dislike me?"

"It looks like it."

"Well, then, because you make me feel life isn't worth living."

Monsieur Profond smiled.

"Look here, Miss Forsyde, don't worry. It'll be all right. Nothing
lasts."

"Things do last," cried Fleur; "with me anyhow--especially likes and
dislikes."

"Well, that makes me a bit un'appy."

"I should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or unhappy."

"I don't like to annoy other people. I'm goin' on my yacht."

Fleur looked at him, startled.

"Where?"

"Small voyage to the South Seas or somewhere," said Monsieur Profond.

Fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult. Clearly he meant to convey
that he w