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 him to give it her.  He pushed his savoury away uneaten, and even joined her in a cigarette.

After dinner she set the electric piano-player going.  And he augured the worst when she sat down on a cushion footstool at his knee, and put her hand on his.

“Darling, be nice to me.  I had to see Jon—­he wrote to me.  He’s going to try what he can do with his mother.  But I’ve been thinking.  It’s really in your hands, Father.  If you’d persuade her that it doesn’t mean renewing the past in any way!  That I shall stay yours, and Jon will stay hers; that you need never see him or her, and she need never see you or me!  Only you could persuade her, dear, because only you could promise.  One can’t promise for other people.  Surely it wouldn’t be too awkward for you to see her just this once now that Jon’s father is dead?”

“Too awkward?” Soames repeated.  “The whole thing’s preposterous.”

“You know,” said Fleur, without looking up, “you wouldn’t mind seeing her, really.”

Soames was silent.  Her words had expressed a truth too deep for him to admit.  She slipped her fingers between his own—­hot, slim, eager, they clung there.  This child of his would corkscrew her way into a brick wall!

“What am I to do if you won’t, Father?” she said very softly.

“I’ll do anything for your happiness,” said Soanies; “but this isn’t for your happiness.”

“Oh! it is; it is!”

“It’ll only stir things up,” he said grimly.

“But they are stirred up.  The thing is to quiet them.  To make her feel that this is just our lives, and has nothing to do with yours or hers.  You can do it, Father, I know you can.”

“You know a great deal, then,” was Soames’ glum answer.

“If you will, Jon and I will wait a year—­two years if you like.”

“It seems to me,” murmured Soames, “that you care nothing about what I feel.”

Fleur pressed his hand against her cheek.

“I do, darling.  But you wouldn’t like me to be awfully miserable.”

How she wheedled to get her ends!  And trying with all his might to think she really cared for him—­he was not sure—­not sure.  All she cared for was this boy!  Why should he help her to get this boy, who was killing her affection for himself?  Why should he?  By the laws of the Forsytes it was foolish!  There was nothing to be had out of it—­nothing!  To give her to that boy!  To pass her into the enemy’s camp, under the influence of the woman who had injured him