The sensation with which Soames dropped the letter was similar to that he would have had entering his bedroom and finding it full of black-beetles.  The meanness of anonymity gave a shuddering obscenity to the moment.  And the worst of it was that this shadow had been at the back of his mind ever since the Sunday evening when Fleur had pointed down at Prosper Profond strolling on the lawn, and said:  “Prowling cat!” Had he not in connection therewith, this very day, perused his Will and Marriage Settlement?  And now this anonymous ruffian, with nothing to gain, apparently, save the venting of his spite against foreigners, had wrenched it out of the obscurity in which he had hoped and wished it would remain.  To have such knowledge forced on him, at his time of life, about Fleur’s mother I He picked the letter up from the carpet, tore it across, and then, when it hung together by just the fold at the back, stopped tearing, and reread it.  He was taking at that moment one of the decisive resolutions of his life.  He would not be forced into another scandal.  No!  However he decided to deal with this matter—­and it required the most far-sighted and careful consideration he would do nothing that might injure Fleur.  That resolution taken, his mind answered the helm again, and he made his ablutions.  His hands trembled as he dried them.  Scandal he would not have, but something must be done to stop this sort of thing!  He went into his wife’s room and stood looking around him.  The idea of searching for anything which would incriminate, and entitle him to hold a menace over her, did not even come to him.  There would be nothing—­she was much too practical.  The idea of having her watched had been dismissed before it came—­too well he remembered his previous experience of that.  No!  He had nothing but this torn-up letter from some anonymous ruffian, whose impudent intrusion into his private life he so violently resented.  It was repugnant to him to make use of it, but he might have to.  What a mercy Fleur was not at home to-night!  A tap on the door broke up his painful cogitations.

“Mr. Michael Mont, sir, is in the drawing-room.  Will you see him?”

“No,” said Soames; “yes.  I’ll come down.”

Anything that would take his mind off for a few minutes!

Michael Mont in flannels stood on the verandah smoking a cigarette.  He threw it away as Soames came up, and ran his hand through his hair.

Soames’ feeling toward this young man was singular.  He was no doubt a rackety, irresponsible young fellow according to old standards, yet somehow likeable, with his extraordinarily cheerful way of blurting out his opinions.

“Come in,” he said; “have you had tea?”

Mont came in.

“I thought Fleur would have been back, sir; but I’m glad she isn’t.  The fact is, I—­I’m fearfully gone on her; so fearfully gone that I thought you’d better know.  It’s old-fashioned, of course, coming to fathers first, but I thought you’d forgive that.  I went to my own Dad, and he says if I settle down he’ll see me through.  He rather cottons to the idea, in fact.  I told him about your Goya.”