Lunch was over and Soames mounted to the picture-gallery in his house near Mapleduram.  He had what Annette called “a grief.”  Fleur was not yet home.  She had been expected on Wednesday; had wired that it would be Friday; and again on Friday that it would be Sunday afternoon; and here were her aunt, and her cousins the Cardigans, and this fellow Profond, and everything flat as a pancake for the want of her.  He stood before his Gauguin—­sorest point of his collection.  He had bought the ugly great thing with two early Matisses before the War, because there was such a fuss about those Post-Impressionist chaps.  He was wondering whether Profond would take them off his hands—­the fellow seemed not to know what to do with his money—­when he heard his sister’s voice say:  “I think that’s a horrid thing, Soames,” and saw that Winifred had followed him up.

“Oh! you do?” he said dryly; “I gave five hundred for it.”

“Fancy!  Women aren’t made like that even if they are black.”

Soames uttered a glum laugh.  “You didn’t come up to tell me that.”

“No.  Do you know that Jolyon’s boy is staying with Val and his wife?”

Soames spun round.

“What?”

“Yes,” drawled Winifred; “he’s gone to live with them there while he learns farming.”

Soames had turned away, but her voice pursued him as he walked up and down.  “I warned Val that neither of them was to be spoken to about old matters.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Winifred shrugged her substantial shoulders.

“Fleur does what she likes.  You’ve always spoiled her.  Besides, my dear boy, what’s the harm?”

“The harm!” muttered Soames.  “Why, she—­” he checked himself.  The Juno, the handkerchief, Fleur’s eyes, her questions, and now this delay in her return—­the symptoms seemed to him so sinister that, faithful to his nature, he could not part with them.

“I think you take too much care,” said Winifred.  “If I were you, I should tell her of that old matter.  It’s no good thinking that girls in these days are as they used to be.  Where they pick up their knowledge I can’t tell, but they seem to know everything.”

Over Soames’ face, closely composed, passed a sort of spasm, and Winifred added hastily: 

“If you don’t like to speak of it, I could for you.”

Soames shook his head.  Unless there was absolute necessity the thought that his adored daughter should learn of that old scandal hurt his pride too much.

“No,” he said, “not yet.  Never if I can help it.

“Nonsense, my dear.  Think what people are!”

“Twenty years is a long time,” muttered Soames.  “Outside our family, who’s likely to remember?”

Winifred was silenced.  She inclined more and more to that peace and quietness of which Montague Dartie had deprived her in her youth.  And, since pictures always depressed her, she soon went down again.