It seemed to Soames that she looked at him in a queer way.  What did she know?  How much had her mother told her?  The worry of trying to make that out gave him an alarming feeling in the head.  He gripped the edge of the table, and dizzily saw Annette come forward, her eyes clear with surprise.  He shut his own and said: 

“It’s all right.  I’ve had a touch of the sun, I think.”  The sun!  What he had was a touch of ’darkness!  Annette’s voice, French and composed, said: 

“Sit down, it will pass, then.”  Her hand pressed his shoulder, and Soames sank into a chair.  When the dark feeling dispersed, and he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him.  What an inscrutable and odd expression for a girl of twenty!

“Do you feel better?”

“It’s nothing,” said Soames.  Instinct told him that to be feeble before her was not helping him—­age was enough handicap without that.  Will-power was his fortune with Annette, he had lost ground these latter months from indecision—­he could not afford to lose any more.  He got up, and said: 

“I’ll write to your mother.  I’m going down to my river house for a long holiday.  I want you both to come there presently and stay.  It’s just at its best.  You will, won’t you?”

“It will be veree nice.”  A pretty little roll of that ‘r’ but no enthusiasm.  And rather sadly he added: 

“You’re feeling the heat; too, aren’t you, Annette?  It’ll do you good to be on the river.  Good-night.”  Annette swayed forward.  There was a sort of compunction in the movement.

“Are you fit to go?  Shall I give you some coffee?”

“No,” said Soames firmly.  “Give me your hand.”

She held out her hand, and Soames raised it to his lips.  When he looked up, her face wore again that strange expression.  ‘I can’t tell,’ he thought, as he went out; ’but I mustn’t think—­I mustn’t worry: 

But worry he did, walking toward Pall Mall.  English, not of her religion, middle-aged, scarred as it were by domestic tragedy, what had he to give her?  Only wealth, social position, leisure, admiration!  It was much, but was it enough for a beautiful girl of twenty?  He felt so ignorant about Annette.  He had, too, a curious fear of the French nature of her mother and herself.  They knew so well what they wanted.  They were almost Forsytes.  They would never grasp a shadow and miss a substance.

The tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to Madame Lamotte when he reached his Club warned him still further that he was at the end of his tether.

“My dear madame (he said),

“You will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that I obtained my decree of divorce to-day.  By the English Law I shall not, however, be free to marry again till the decree is confirmed six months hence.  In the meanwhile I have the honor to ask to be considered a formal suitor for the hand of your daughter.  I shall write again in a few days and beg you both to come and stay at my river house.  “I am, dear Madame, “Sincerely yours, “Soames Forsyte.”