“Dearest!” she said.  “What must be, must, you know.”

“Must!” repeated Soames.  “You don’t know what you’re talking of.  Has that boy been told?”

The blood rushed into her cheeks.

“Not yet.”

He had turned from her again, and, with one shoulder a little raised, stood staring fixedly at a joint in the pipes.

“It’s most distasteful to me,” he said suddenly; “nothing could be more so.  Son of that fellow!  It’s—­it’s—­perverse!”

She had noted, almost unconsciously, that he did not say “son of that woman,” and again her intuition began working.

Did the ghost of that grand passion linger in some corner of his heart?

She slipped her hand under his arm.

“Jon’s father is quite ill and old; I saw him.”

“You—?”

“Yes, I went there with Jon; I saw them both.”

“Well, and what did they say to you?”

“Nothing.  They were very polite.”

“They would be.”  He resumed his contemplation of the pipe-joint, and then said suddenly: 

“I must think this over—­I’ll speak to you again to-night.”

She knew this was final for the moment, and stole away, leaving him still looking at the pipe-joint.  She wandered into the fruit-garden, among the raspberry and currant bushes, without impetus to pick and eat.  Two months ago—­she was light-hearted!  Even two days ago—­light-hearted, before Prosper Profond told her.  Now she felt tangled in a web-of passions, vested rights, oppressions and revolts, the ties of love and hate.  At this dark moment of discouragement there seemed, even to her hold-fast nature, no way out.  How deal with it—­how sway and bend things to her will, and get her heart’s desire?  And, suddenly, round the corner of the high box hedge, she came plump on her mother, walking swiftly, with an open letter in her hand.  Her bosom was heaving, her eyes dilated, her cheeks flushed.  Instantly Fleur thought:  ’The yacht!  Poor Mother!’

Annette gave her a wide startled look, and said: 

“J’ai la migraine.”

“I’m awfully sorry, Mother.”

“Oh, yes! you and your father—­sorry!”

“But, Mother—­I am.  I know what it feels like.”

Annette’s startled eyes grew wide, till the whites showed above them.

“Poor innocent!” she said.

Her mother—­so self-possessed, and commonsensical—­to look and speak like this!  It was all frightening!  Her father, her mother, herself!  And only two months back they had seemed to have everything they wanted in this world.

Annette crumpled the letter in her hand.  Fleur knew that she must ignore the sight.

“Can’t I do anything for your head, Mother?”

Annette shook that head and walked on, swaying her hips.

‘It’s cruel,’ thought Fleur, ’and I was glad!  That man!  What do men come prowling for, disturbing everything!  I suppose he’s tired of her.  What business has he to be tired of my mother?  What business!’ And at that thought, so natural and so peculiar, she uttered a little choked laugh.