At tea, which they both took with lemon, Soames spoke of the Transvaal.

“There’ll be war,” he said.

Madame Lamotte lamented.

“Ces pauvres gens bergers!” Could they not be left to themselves?

Soames smiled—­the question seemed to him absurd.

Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British could not abandon their legitimate commercial interests.

“Ah! that!” But Madame Lamotte found that the English were a little hypocrite.  They were talking of justice and the Uitlanders, not of business.  Monsieur was the first who had spoken to her of that.

“The Boers are only half-civilised,” remarked Soames; “they stand in the way of progress.  It will never do to let our suzerainty go.”

“What does that mean to say?  Suzerainty!”

“What a strange word!” Soames became eloquent, roused by these threats to the principle of possession, and stimulated by Annette’s eyes fixed on him.  He was delighted when presently she said: 

“I think Monsieur is right.  They should be taught a lesson.”  She was sensible!

“Of course,” he said, “we must act with moderation.  I’m no jingo.  We must be firm without bullying.  Will you come up and see my pictures?” Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon perceived that they knew nothing.  They passed his last Mauve, that remarkable study of a ‘Hay-cart going Home,’ as if it were a lithograph.  He waited almost with awe to see how they would view the jewel of his collection—­an Israels whose price he had watched ascending till he was now almost certain it had reached top value, and would be better on the market again.  They did not view it at all.  This was a shock; and yet to have in Annette a virgin taste to form would be better than to have the silly, half-baked predilections of the English middle-class to deal with.  At the end of the gallery was a Meissonier of which he was rather ashamed —­Meissonier was so steadily going down.  Madame Lamotte stopped before it.

“Meissonier!  Ah!  What a jewel!” Soames took advantage of that moment.  Very gently touching Annette’s arm, he said: 

“How do you like my place, Annette?”

She did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, looked down, and murmured: 

“Who would not like it?  It is so beautiful!”

“Perhaps some day—­” Soames said, and stopped.

So pretty she was, so self-possessed—­she frightened him.  Those cornflower-blue eyes, the turn of that creamy neck, her delicate curves—­she was a standing temptation to indiscretion!  No!  No!  One must be sure of one’s ground—­much surer!  ‘If I hold off,’ he thought, ’it will tantalise her.’  And he crossed over to Madame Lamotte, who was still in front of the Meissonier.

“Yes, that’s quite a good example of his later work.  You must come again, Madame, and see them lighted up.  You must both come and spend a night.”