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 colour, 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 at his arm.  “Oh!  Let’s go!  It’s a ghastly show.”

In the doorway they passed the young man called Mont and his partner.  But Soames had hung out a board marked “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” and he barely acknowledged the young fellow’s salute.

“Well,” he said in the street, “whom did you meet at Imogen’s?”

“Aunt Winifred, and that Monsieur Profond.”

“Oh!” muttered Soames; “that chap!  What does your aunt see in him?”

“I don’t know.  He looks pretty deep—­mother says she likes him.”

Soames grunted.

“Cousin Val and his wife were there, too.”

“What!” said Soames.  “I thought they were back in South Africa.”

“Oh, no!  They’ve sold their farm.  Cousin Val is going to train race-horses on the Sussex Downs.  They’ve got a jolly old manor-house; they asked me down there.”

Soames coughed:  the news was distasteful to him.  “What’s his wife like now?”

“Very quiet, but nice, I think.”

Soames coughed again.  “He’s a rackety chap, your Cousin Val.”

“Oh! no, Father; they’re awfully devoted.  I promised to go—­Saturday to Wednesday next.”

“Training race-horses!” said Soames.  It was extravagant, but not the reason for his distaste.  Why the deuce couldn’t his nephew have stayed out in South Africa?  His own divorce had been bad enough, without his nephew’s marriage to the daughter of the co-respondent; a half-sister too of June, and of that boy whom Fleur had just been looking at from under the pump-handle.  If he didn’t look out, she would come to know all about that old disgrace!  Unpleasant things!  They were round him this afternoon like a swarm of bees!

“I don’t like it!” he said.

“I want to see the race-horses,” murmured Fleur; “and they’ve promised I shall ride.  Cousin Val can’t walk much, you know; but he can ride perfectly.  He’s going to show me their gallops.”