Val recounted the incident of Monsieur Prosper Profond; nothing could have been more favourable, for, in relating it, he regarded Holly, who in turn regarded him, while Fleur seemed to be regarding with a slight frown some thought of her own, and Jon was really free to look at her at last.  She had on a white frock, very simple and well made; her arms were bare, and her hair had a white rose in it.  In just that swift moment of free vision, after such intense discomfort, Jon saw her sublimated, as one sees in the dark a slender white fruit-tree; caught her like a verse of poetry flashed before the eyes of the mind, or a tune which floats out in the distance and dies.  He wondered giddily how old she was—­she seemed so much more self-possessed and experienced than himself.  Why mustn’t he say they had met?  He remembered suddenly his mother’s face; puzzled, hurt-looking, when she answered:  “Yes, they’re relations, but we don’t know them.”  Impossible that his mother, who loved beauty, should not admire Fleur if she did know her.

Alone with Val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and answered the advances of this new-found brother-in-law.  As to riding (always the first consideration with Val) he could have the young chestnut, saddle and unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it when he brought it in.  Jon said he was accustomed to all that at home, and saw that he had gone up one in his host’s estimation.

“Fleur,” said Val, “can’t ride much yet, but she’s keen.  Of course, her father doesn’t know a horse from a cart-wheel.  Does your Dad ride?”

“He used to; but now he’s—­you know, he’s—­” He stopped, so hating the word “old.”  His father was old, and yet not old; no—­never!

“Quite,” muttered Val.  “I used to know your brother up at Oxford, ages ago, the one who died in the Boer War.  We had a fight in New College Gardens.  That was a queer business,” he added, musing; “a good deal came out of it.”

Jon’s eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical research, when his sister’s voice said gently from the doorway: 

“Come along, you two,” and he rose, his heart pushing him toward something far more modern.

Fleur having declared that it was “simply too wonderful to stay indoors,” they all went out.  Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an old sundial threw a long shadow.  Two box hedges at right angles, dark and square, barred off the orchard.  Fleur turned through that angled opening.

“Come on!” she called.  Jon glanced at the others, and followed.  She was running among the trees like a ghost.  All was lovely and foamlike above her, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of nettles.  She vanished.  He thought he had lost her, then almost ran into her standing quite still.

“Isn’t it jolly?” she cried, and Jon answered: 

“Rather!”

She reached up, twisted off a blossom and, twirling it in her fingers, said: