June, who by nature never saw a hornet’s nest until she had put her head into it, was seriously alarmed.  She came and slipped her arm through his.  Not convinced that he was right, and she herself wrong, because that was not natural to her, she was yet profoundly impressed by the obvious fact that the subject was very bad for him.  She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, and said nothing.

After taking her elderly cousin across, Fleur did not land at once, but pulled in among the reeds, into the sunshine.  The peaceful beauty of the afternoon seduced for a little one not much given to the vague and poetic.  In the field beyond the bank where her skiff lay up, a machine drawn by a grey horse was turning an early field of hay.  She watched the grass cascading over and behind the light wheels with fascination—­it looked so cool and fresh.  The click and swish blended with the rustle of the willows and the poplars, and the cooing of a wood-pigeon, in a true river song.  Alongside, in the deep green water, weeds, like yellow snakes, were writhing and nosing with the current; pied cattle on the farther side stood in the shade lazily swishing their tails.  It was an afternoon to dream.  And she took out Jon’s letters—­not flowery effusions, but haunted in their recital of things seen and done by a longing very agreeable to her, and all ending “Your devoted J.”  Fleur was not sentimental, her desires were ever concrete and concentrated, but what poetry there was in the daughter of Soames and Annette had certainly in those weeks of waiting gathered round her memories of Jon.  They all belonged to grass and blossom, flowers and running water.  She enjoyed him in the scents absorbed by her crinkling nose.  The stars could persuade her that she was standing beside him in the centre of the map of Spain; and of an early morning the dewy cobwebs, the hazy sparkle and promise of the day down in the garden, were Jon personified to her.

Two white swans came majestically by, while she was reading his letters, followed by their brood of six young swans in a line, with just so much water between each tail and head, a flotilla of grey destroyers.  Fleur thrust her letters back, got out her sculls, and pulled up to the landing-stage.  Crossing the lawn, she wondered whether she should tell her father of June’s visit.  If he learned of it from the butler, he might think it odd if she did not.  It gave her, too, another chance to startle out of him the reason of the feud.  She went, therefore, up the road to meet him.

Soames had gone to look at a patch of ground on which the Local Authorities were proposing to erect a Sanatorium for people with weak lungs.  Faithful to his native individualism, he took no part in local affairs, content to pay the rates which were always going up.  He could not, however, remain indifferent to this new and dangerous scheme.  The site was not half a mile from his own house.  He was quite of opinion