perhaps a piece of sculpture by Boris Strumolowski, and of course she would say nothing to her father.  She went on the following Sunday, looking so determined that she had some difficulty in getting a cab at Reading station.  The river country was lovely in those days of her own month, and June ached at its loveliness.  She who had passed through this life without knowing what union was had a love of natural beauty which was almost madness.  And when she came to that choice spot where Soames had pitched his tent, she dismissed her cab, because, business over, she wanted to revel in the bright water and the woods.  She appeared at his front door, therefore, as a mere pedestrian, and sent in her card.  It was in June’s character to know that when her nerves were fluttering she was doing something worth while.  If one’s nerves did not flutter, she was taking the line of least resistance, and knew that nobleness was not obliging her.  She was conducted to a drawing-room, which, though not in her style, showed every mark of fastidious elegance.  Thinking, ’Too much taste—­too many knick-knacks,’ she saw in an old lacquer-framed mirror the figure of a girl coming in from the verandah.  Clothed in white, and holding some white roses in her hand, she had, reflected in that silvery-grey pool of glass, a vision-like appearance, as if a pretty ghost had come out of the green garden.

“How do you do?” said June, turning round.  “I’m a cousin of your father’s.”

“Oh, yes; I saw you in that confectioner’s.”

“With my young stepbrother.  Is your father in?”

“He will be directly.  He’s only gone for a little walk.”

June slightly narrowed her blue eyes, and lifted her decided chin.

“Your name’s Fleur, isn’t it?  I’ve heard of you from Holly.  What do you think of Jon?”

The girl lifted the roses in her hand, looked at them, and answered calmly: 

“He’s quite a nice boy.”

“Not a bit like Holly or me, is he?”

“Not a bit.”

‘She’s cool,’ thought June.

And suddenly the girl said:  “I wish you’d tell me why our families don’t get on?”

Confronted with the question she had advised her father to answer, June was silent; whether because this girl was trying to get something out of her, or simply because what one would do theoretically is not always what one will do when it comes to the point.

“You know,” said the girl, “the surest way to make people find out the worst is to keep them ignorant.  My father’s told me it was a quarrel about property.  But I don’t believe it; we’ve both got heaps.  They wouldn’t have been so bourgeois as all that.”

June flushed.  The word applied to her grandfather and father offended her.

“My grandfather,” she said, “was very generous, and my father is, too; neither of them was in the least bourgeois.”

“Well, what was it then?” repeated the girl:  Conscious that this young Forsyte meant having what she wanted, June at once determined to prevent her, and to get something for herself instead.