Her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how distinguished and desirable a girl this was.  She asked after old Jolyon’s health.  A wonderful man for his age; so upright, and young looking, and how old was he?  Eighty-one!  She would never have thought it!  They were at the sea!  Very nice for them; she supposed June heard from Phil every day?  Her light grey eyes became more prominent as she asked this question; but the girl met the glance without flinching.

“No,” she said, “he never writes!”

Mrs. Baynes’s eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, but they did.  They recovered immediately.

“Of course not.  That’s Phil all over—­he was always like that!”

“Was he?” said June.

The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Baynes’s bright smile a moment’s hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and spreading her skirts afresh, said:  “Why, my dear—­he’s quite the most harum-scarum person; one never pays the slightest attention to what he does!”

The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her time; even were she to put a question point-blank, she would never get anything out of this woman.

‘Do you see him?’ she asked, her face crimsoning.

The perspiration broke out on Mrs. Baynes’ forehead beneath the powder.

“Oh, yes!  I don’t remember when he was here last—­indeed, we haven’t seen much of him lately.  He’s so busy with your cousin’s house; I’m told it’ll be finished directly.  We must organize a little dinner to celebrate the event; do come and stay the night with us!”

“Thank you,” said June.  Again she thought:  ’I’m only wasting my time.  This woman will tell me nothing.’

She got up to go.  A change came over Mrs. Baynes.  She rose too; her lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands.  Something was evidently very wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who stood there, a slim, straight little figure, with her decided face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes.  She was not accustomed to be afraid of asking question’s—­all organization was based on the asking of questions!

But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was fairly shaken; only that morning her husband had said:  “Old Mr. Forsyte must be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!”

And this girl stood there, holding out her hand—­holding out her hand!

The chance might be slipping away—­she couldn’t tell—­the chance of keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak.

Her eyes followed June to the door.

It closed.

Then with an exclamation Mrs. Baynes ran forward, wobbling her bulky frame from side to side, and opened it again.

Too late!  She heard the front door click, and stood still, an expression of real anger and mortification on her face.

June went along the Square with her bird-like quickness.  She detested that woman now whom in happier days she had been accustomed to think so kind.  Was she always to be put off thus, and forced to undergo this torturing suspense?