Soames examined a branch on which no grapes were growing.

“This vine’s a failure,” he said.  “I’ve had young Mont here.  He asked me something about you.”

“Oh!  How do you like him, Father?”

“He—­he’s a product—­like all these young people.”

“What were you at his age, dear?”

Soames smiled grimly.

“We went to work, and didn’t play about—­flying and motoring, and making love.”

“Didn’t you ever make love?”

She avoided looking at him while she said that, but she saw him well enough.  His pale face had reddened, his eyebrows, where darkness was still mingled with the grey, had come close together.

“I had no time or inclination to philander.”

“Perhaps you had a grand passion.”

Soames looked at her intently.

“Yes—­if you want to know—­and much good it did me.”  He moved away, along by the hot-water pipes.  Fleur tiptoed silently after him.

“Tell me about it, Father!”

Soames became very still.

“What should you want to know about such things, at your age?”

“Is she alive?”

He nodded.

“And married?” Yes.”

“It’s Jon Forsyte’s mother, isn’t it?  And she was your wife first.”

It was said in a flash of intuition.  Surely his opposition came from his anxiety that she should not know of that old wound to his pride.  But she was startled.  To see some one so old and calm wince as if struck, to hear so sharp a note of pain in his voice!

“Who told you that?  If your aunt!  I can’t bear the affair talked of.”

“But, darling,” said Fleur, softly, “it’s so long ago.”

“Long ago or not, I....”

Fleur stood stroking his arm.

“I’ve tried to forget,” he said suddenly; “I don’t wish to be reminded.”  And then, as if venting some long and secret irritation, he added:  “In these days people don’t understand.  Grand passion, indeed!  No one knows what it is.”

“I do,” said Fleur, almost in a whisper.

Soames, who had turned his back on her, spun round.

“What are you talking of—­a child like you!”

“Perhaps I’ve inherited it, Father.”

“What?”

“For her son, you see.”

He was pale as a sheet, and she knew that she was as bad.  They stood staring at each other in the steamy heat, redolent of the mushy scent of earth, of potted geranium, and of vines coming along fast.

“This is crazy,” said Soames at last, between dry lips.

Scarcely moving her own, she murmured: 

“Don’t be angry, Father.  I can’t help it.”

But she could see he wasn’t angry; only scared, deeply scared.

“I thought that foolishness,” he stammered, “was all forgotten.”

“Oh, no!  It’s ten times what it was.”

Soames kicked at the hot-water pipe.  The hapless movement touched her, who had no fear of her father—­none.