The studio, where they had been sorting and labelling, had once been Holly’s schoolroom, devoted to her silkworms, dried lavender, music, and other forms of instruction.  Now, at the end of July, despite its northern and eastern aspects, a warm and slumberous air came in between the long-faded lilac linen curtains.  To redeem a little the departed glory, as of a field that is golden and gone, clinging to a room which its master has left, Irene had placed on the paint-stained table a bowl of red roses.  This, and Jolyon’s favourite cat, who still clung to the deserted habitat, were the pleasant spots in that dishevelled, sad workroom.  Jon, at the north window, sniffing air mysteriously scented with warm strawberries, heard a car drive up.  The lawyers again about some nonsense!  Why did that scent so make one ache?  And where did it come from—­there were no strawberry beds on this side of the house.  Instinctively he took a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, and wrote down some broken words.  A warmth began spreading in his chest; he rubbed the palms of his hands together.  Presently he had jotted this: 

“If I could make a little song A little song to soothe my heart!  I’d make it all of little things The plash of water, rub of wings, The puffing-off of dandies crown, The hiss of raindrop spilling down, The purr of cat, the trill of bird, And ev’ry whispering I’ve heard From willy wind in leaves and grass, And all the distant drones that pass.  A song as tender and as light As flower, or butterfly in flight; And when I saw it opening, I’d let it fly and sing!”

He was still muttering it over to himself at the window, when he heard his name called, and, turning round, saw Fleur.  At that amazing apparition, he made at first no movement and no sound, while her clear vivid glance ravished his heart.  Then he went forward to the table, saying, “How nice of you to come!” and saw her flinch as if he had thrown something at her.

“I asked for you,” she said, “and they showed me up here.  But I can go away again.”

Jon clutched the paint-stained table.  Her face and figure in its frilly frock photographed itself with such startling vividness upon his eyes, that if she had sunk through the floor he must still have seen her.

“I know I told you a lie, Jon.  But I told it out of love.”

“Yes, oh! yes!  That’s nothing!”

“I didn’t answer your letter.  What was the use—­there wasn’t anything to answer.  I wanted to see you instead.”  She held out both her hands, and Jon grasped them across the table.  He tried to say something, but all his attention was given to trying not to hurt her hands.  His own felt so hard and hers so soft.  She said almost defiantly: 

“That old story—­was it so very dreadful?”

“Yes.”  In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance.

She dragged her hands away.  “I didn’t think in these days boys were tied to their mothers’ apron-strings.”