“His daughter’s an attractive small girl.  Mr. Soames Forsyde is a bit old-fashioned.  I want to see him have a pleasure some day.”  George Forsyte grinned.

“Don’t you worry; he’s not so miserable as he looks.  He’ll never show he’s enjoying anything—­they might try and take it from him.  Old Soames!  Once bit, twice shy!”

“Well, Jon,” said Val, hastily, “if you’ve finished, we’ll go and have coffee.”

“Who were those?” Jon asked, on the stairs.  “I didn’t quite—–­”

“Old George Forsyte is a first cousin of your father’s and of my Uncle Soames.  He’s always been here.  The other chap, Profond, is a queer fish.  I think he’s hanging round Soames’ wife, if you ask me!”

Jon looked at him, startled.  “But that’s awful,” he said:  “I mean—­for Fleur.”

“Don’t suppose Fleur cares very much; she’s very up-to-date.”

“Her mother!”

“You’re very green, Jon.”

Jon grew red.  “Mothers,” he stammered angrily, “are different.”

“You’re right,” said Val suddenly; “but things aren’t what they were when
I was your age.  There’s a ‘To-morrow we die’ feeling.  That’s what old
George meant about my Uncle Soames.  He doesn’t mean to die to-morrow.”

Jon said, quickly:  “What’s the matter between him and my father?”

“Stable secret, Jon.  Take my advice, and bottle up.  You’ll do no good by knowing.  Have a liqueur?”

Jon shook his head.

“I hate the way people keep things from one,” he muttered, “and then sneer at one for being green.”

“Well, you can ask Holly.  If she won’t tell you, you’ll believe it’s for your own good, I suppose.”

Jon got up.  “I must go now; thanks awfully for the lunch.”

Val smiled up at him half-sorry, and yet amused.  The boy looked so upset.

“All right!  See you on Friday.”

“I don’t know,” murmured Jon.

And he did not.  This conspiracy of silence made him desperate.  It was humiliating to be treated like a child!  He retraced his moody steps to Stratton Street.  But he would go to her Club now, and find out the worst!  To his enquiry the reply was that Miss Forsyte was not in the Club.  She might be in perhaps later.  She was often in on Monday—­they could not say.  Jon said he would call again, and, crossing into the Green Park, flung himself down under a tree.  The sun was bright, and a breeze fluttered the leaves of the young lime-tree beneath which he lay; but his heart ached.  Such darkness seemed gathered round his happiness.  He heard Big Ben chime “Three” above the traffic.  The sound moved something in him, and, taking out a piece of paper, he began to scribble on it with a pencil.  He had jotted a stanza, and was searching the grass for another verse, when something hard touched his shoulder-a green parasol.  There above him stood Fleur!

“They told me you’d been, and were coming back.  So I thought you might be out here; and you are—­it’s rather wonderful!”