“You think so?” said Fleur shortly.

“Worries,” repeated Monsieur Profond, burring the r’s.

Fleur spun round.  “Shall I tell you,” she said, “what would give him pleasure?” But the words, “To hear that you had cleared out,” died at the expression on his face.  All his fine white teeth were showing.

“I was hearin’ at the Club to-day about his old trouble.”  Fleur opened her eyes.  “What do you mean?”

Monsieur Profond moved his sleek head as if to minimize his statement.

“Before you were born,” he said; “that small business.”

Though conscious that he had cleverly diverted her from his own share in her father’s worry, Fleur was unable to withstand a rush of nervous curiosity.  “Tell me what you heard.”

“Why!” murmured Monsieur Profond, “you know all that.”

“I expect I do.  But I should like to know that you haven’t heard it all wrong.”

“His first wife,” murmured Monsieur Profond.

Choking back the words, “He was never married before,” she said:  “Well, what about her?”

“Mr. George Forsyde was tellin’ me about your father’s first wife marryin’ his cousin Jolyon afterward.  It was a small bit unpleasant, I should think.  I saw their boy—­nice boy!”

Fleur looked up.  Monsieur Profond was swimming, heavily diabolical, before her.  That—­the reason!  With the most heroic effort of her life so far, she managed to arrest that swimming figure.  She could not tell whether he had noticed.  And just then Winifred came in.

“Oh! here you both are already; Imogen and I have had the most amusing afternoon at the Babies’ bazaar.”

“What babies?” said Fleur mechanically.

“The ‘Save the Babies.’  I got such a bargain, my dear.  A piece of old Armenian work—­from before the Flood.  I want your opinion on it, Prosper.”

“Auntie,” whispered Fleur suddenly.

At the tone in the girl’s voice Winifred closed in on her.’

“What’s the matter?  Aren’t you well?”

Monsieur Profond had withdrawn into the window, where he was practically out of hearing.

“Auntie, he-he told me that father has been married before.  Is it true that he divorced her, and she married Jon Forsyte’s father?”

Never in all the life of the mother of four little Darties had Winifred felt more seriously embarrassed.  Her niece’s face was so pale, her eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained.

“Your father didn’t wish you to hear,” she said, with all the aplomb she could muster.  “These things will happen.  I’ve often told him he ought to let you know.”

“Oh!” said Fleur, and that was all, but it made Winifred pat her shoulder—­a firm little shoulder, nice and white!  She never could help an appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece, who would have to be married, of course—­though not to that boy Jon.