Soames turned and forced himself to answer:

"Yes."

"Oh!" cried Fleur. "What did you--what could you have done in those old
days?"

The breathless sense of really monstrous injustice cut the power of
speech in Soames' throat. What had HE done! What had they done to him!
And with quite unconscious dignity he put his hand on his breast, and
looked at her.

"It's a shame!" cried Fleur passionately.

Soames went out. He mounted, slow and icy, to his picture-gallery, and
paced among his treasures. Outrageous! Oh! Outrageous! She was spoiled!
Ah! and who had spoiled her? He stood still before the Goya copy.
Accustomed to her own way in everything--Flower of his life! And now
that she couldn't have it. He turned to the window for some air.
Daylight was dying, the moon rising, gold behind the poplars! What
sound was that? Why! That piano thing! A dark tune, with a thrum and a
throb! She had set it going--what comfort could she get from that? His
eyes caught movement down there beyond the lawn, under the trellis of
rambler roses and young acacia-trees, where the moonlight fell. There
she was, roaming up and down. His heart gave a little sickening jump.
What would she do under this blow? How could he tell? What did he know
of her--he had only loved her all his life--looked on her as the apple
of his eye! He knew nothing--had no notion. There she was--and that
dark tune--and the river gleaming in the moonlight!

'I must go out,' he thought. He hastened down to the drawing-room,
lighted just as he had left it, with the piano thrumming out that
waltz, or fox-trot, or whatever they called it in these days, and
passed through on to the verandah. Where could he watch, without her
seeing him? And he stole down through the fruit garden to the
boat-house. He was between her and the river now, and his heart felt
lighter. She was his daughter, and Annette's--she wouldn't do anything
foolish; but there it was--he didn't know! From the boat-house window
he could see the last acacia and the spin of her skirt when she turned
in her restless march. That tune had run down at last--thank goodness!
He crossed the floor and looked through the farther window at the water
slow-flowing past the lilies. It made little bubbles against them,
bright where a moon-streak fell. He remembered suddenly that early
morning when he had slept in this boat-house after his father died, and
she had just been born--nearly nineteen years ago! Even now he recal