‘The younger generation!’ he thought heavily, and went out on to the lawn.  The gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell of fresh-cut grass—­the thundery air kept all scents close to earth.  The sky was of a purplish hue—­the poplars black.  Two or three boats passed on the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm.  ’Three days’ fine weather,’ thought Soames, ‘and then a storm!’ Where was Annette?  With that chap, for all he knew—­she was a young woman!  Impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he entered the summerhouse and sat down.  The fact was—­and he admitted it—­Fleur was so much to him that his wife was very little—­very little; French—­had never been much more than a mistress, and he was getting indifferent to that side of things!  It was odd how, with all this ingrained care for moderation and secure investment, Soames ever put his emotional eggs into one basket.  First Irene—­now Fleur.  He was dimly conscious of it, sitting there, conscious of its odd dangerousness.  It had brought him to wreck and scandal once, but now—­now it should save him!  He cared so much for Fleur that he would have no further scandal.  If only he could get at that anonymous letter-writer, he would teach him not to meddle and stir up mud at the bottom of water which he wished should remain stagnant!...  A distant flash, a low rumble, and large drops of rain spattered on the thatch above him.  He remained indifferent, tracing a pattern with his finger on the dusty surface of a little rustic table.  Fleur’s future!  ‘I want fair sailing for her,’ he thought.  ’Nothing else matters at my time of life.’  A lonely business—­life!  What you had you never could keep to yourself!  As you warned one off, you let another in.  One could make sure of nothing!  He reached up and pulled a red rambler rose from a cluster which blocked the window.  Flowers grew and dropped—­Nature was a queer thing!  The thunder rumbled and crashed, travelling east along a river, the paling flashes flicked his eyes; the poplar tops showed sharp and dense against the sky, a heavy shower rustled and rattled and veiled in the little house wherein he sat, indifferent, thinking.

When the storm was over, he left his retreat and went down the wet path to the river bank.

Two swans had come, sheltering in among the reeds.  He knew the birds well, and stood watching the dignity in the curve of those white necks and formidable snake-like heads.  ‘Not dignified—­what I have to do!’ he thought.  And yet it must be tackled, lest worse befell.  Annette must be back by now from wherever she had gone, for it was nearly dinner-time, and as the moment for seeing her approached, the difficulty of knowing what to say and how to say it had increased.  A new and scaring thought occurred to him.  Suppose she wanted her liberty to marry this fellow!  Well, if she did, she couldn’t have it.  He had not married her for that.  The image of Prosper Profond dawdled