“We had an encounter to-day.”

“With whom?”

“Soames.”

Soames!  He had kept that name out of his thoughts these last two years; conscious that it was bad for him.  And, now, his heart moved in a disconcerting manner, as if it had side-slipped within his chest.

Irene went on quietly: 

“He and his daughter were in the Gallery, and afterward at the confectioner’s where we had tea.”

Jolyon went over and put his hand on her shoulder.

“How did he look?”

“Grey; but otherwise much the same.”

“And the daughter?”

“Pretty.  At least, Jon thought so.”

Jolyon’s heart side-slipped again.  His wife’s face had a strained and puzzled look.

“You didn’t-?” he began.

“No; but Jon knows their name.  The girl dropped her handkerchief and he picked it up.”

Jolyon sat down on his bed.  An evil chance!

“June was with you.  Did she put her foot into it?”

“No; but it was all very queer and strained, and Jon could see it was.”

Jolyon drew a long breath, and said: 

“I’ve often wondered whether we’ve been right to keep it from him.  He’ll find out some day.”

“The later the better, Jolyon; the young have such cheap, hard judgment.  When you were nineteen what would you have thought of your mother if she had done what I have?”

Yes!  There it was!  Jon worshipped his mother; and knew nothing of the tragedies, the inexorable necessities of life, nothing of the prisoned grief in an unhappy marriage, nothing of jealousy or passion—­knew nothing at all, as yet!

“What have you told him?” he said at last.

“That they were relations, but we didn’t know them; that you had never cared much for your family, or they for you.  I expect he will be asking you.”

Jolyon smiled.  “This promises to take the place of air-raids,” he said.  “After all, one misses them.”

Irene looked up at him.

“We’ve known it would come some day.”

He answered her with sudden energy: 

“I could never stand seeing Jon blame you.  He shan’t do that, even in thought.  He has imagination; and he’ll understand if it’s put to him properly.  I think I had better tell him before he gets to know otherwise.”

“Not yet, Jolyon.”

That was like her—­she had no foresight, and never went to meet trouble.  Still—­who knew?—­she might be right.  It was ill going against a mother’s instinct.  It might be well to let the boy go on, if possible, till experience had given him some touchstone by which he could judge the values of that old tragedy; till love, jealousy, longing, had deepened his charity.  All the same, one must take precautions—­every precaution possible!  And, long after Irene had left him, he lay awake turning over those precautions.  He must write to Holly, telling her that Jon knew nothing as yet of family history.  Holly was discreet, she would make sure of her husband, she would see to it!  Jon could take the letter with him when he went to-morrow.