“Well,” he said, “your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel.  The two families don’t know each other.”

“How romantic!”

‘Now, what does she mean by that?’ he thought.  The word was to him extravagant and dangerous—­it was as if she had said:  “How jolly!”

“And they’ll continue not to know each, other,” he added, but instantly regretted the challenge in those words.  Fleur was smiling.  In this age, when young people prided themselves on going their own ways and paying no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had said the very thing to excite her wilfulness.  Then, recollecting the expression on Irene’s face, he breathed again.

“What sort of a quarrel?” he heard Fleur say.

“About a house.  It’s ancient history for you.  Your grandfather died the day you were born.  He was ninety.”

“Ninety?  Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?”

“I don’t know,” said Soames.  “They’re all dispersed now.  The old ones are dead, except Timothy.”

Fleur clasped her hands.

“Timothy?  Isn’t that delicious?”

“Not at all,” said Soames.  It offended him that she should think “Timothy” delicious—­a kind of insult to his breed.  This new generation mocked at anything solid and tenacious.  “You go and see the old boy.  He might want to prophesy.”  Ah!  If Timothy could see the disquiet England of his great-nephews and great-nieces, he would certainly give tongue.  And involuntarily he glanced up at the Iseeum; yes—­George was still in the window, with the same pink paper in his hand.

“Where is Robin Hill, Father?”

Robin Hill!  Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred!  What did she want to know for?

“In Surrey,” he muttered; “not far from Richmond.  Why?”

“Is the house there?”

“What house?”

“That they quarrelled about.”

“Yes.  But what’s all that to do with you?  We’re going home to-morrow—­you’d better be thinking about your frocks.”

“Bless you!  They’re all thought about.  A family feud?  It’s like the Bible, or Mark Twain—­awfully exciting.  What did you do in the feud, Father?”

“Never you mind.”

“Oh!  But if I’m to keep it up?”

“Who said you were to keep it up?”

“You, darling.”

“I?  I said it had nothing to do with you.”

“Just what I think, you know; so that’s all right.”

She was too sharp for him; fine, as Annette sometimes called her.  Nothing for it but to distract her attention.

“There’s a bit of rosaline point in here,” he said, stopping before a shop, “that I thought you might like.”

When he had paid for it and they had resumed their progress, Fleur said: 

“Don’t you think that boy’s mother is the most beautiful woman of her age you’ve ever seen?”

Soames shivered.  Uncanny, the way she stuck to it!