End it, forsooth!  She would soon show them all that she was only just beginning.  And she smiled to herself on the top of the bus which carried her back to Mayfair.  But the smile died, squeezed out by spasms of anticipation and anxiety.  Would she be able to manage Jon?  She had taken the bit between her teeth, but could she make him take it too?  She knew the truth and the real danger of delay—­he knew neither; therein lay all the difference in the world.

‘Suppose I tell him,’ she thought; ‘wouldn’t it really be safer?’ This hideous luck had no right to spoil their love; he must see that!  They could not let it!  People always accepted an accomplished fact in time!  From that piece of philosophy—­profound enough at her age—­she passed to another consideration less philosophic.  If she persuaded Jon to a quick and secret marriage, and he found out afterward that she had known the truth.  What then?  Jon hated subterfuge.  Again, then, would it not be better to tell him?  But the memory of his mother’s face kept intruding on that impulse.  Fleur was afraid.  His mother had power over him; more power perhaps than she herself.  Who could tell?  It was too great a risk.  Deep-sunk in these instinctive calculations she was carried on past Green Street as far as the Ritz Hotel.  She got down there, and walked back on the Green Park side.  The storm had washed every tree; they still dripped.  Heavy drops fell on to her frills, and to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes of the Iseeum Club.  Chancing to look up she saw Monsieur Profond with a tall stout man in the bay window.  Turning into Green Street she heard her name called, and saw “that prowler” coming up.  He took off his hat—­a glossy “bowler” such as she particularly detested.

“Good evenin’!  Miss Forsyde.  Isn’t there a small thing I can do for you?”

“Yes, pass by on the other side.”

“I say!  Why do you dislike me?”

“Do I?”

“It looks like it.”

“Well, then, because you make me feel life isn’t worth living.”

Monsieur Profond smiled.

“Look here, Miss Forsyde, don’t worry.  It’ll be all right.  Nothing lasts.”

“Things do last,” cried Fleur; “with me anyhow—­especially likes and dislikes.”

“Well, that makes me a bit un’appy.”

“I should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or unhappy.”

“I don’t like to annoy other people.  I’m goin’ on my yacht.”

Fleur looked at him, startled.

“Where?”

“Small voyage to the South Seas or somewhere,” said Monsieur Profond.

Fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult.  Clearly he meant to convey that he was breaking with her mother.  How dared he have anything to break, and yet how dared he break it?

“Good-night, Miss Forsyde!  Remember me to Mrs. Dartie.  I’m not so bad really.  Good-night!” Fleur left him standing there with his hat raised.  Stealing a look round, she saw him stroll—­immaculate and heavy—­back toward his Club.