“It’s extremely painful for me to talk, but there’s no help for it.  I don’t know if you understand how much you are to me I’ve never spoken of it, I didn’t think it necessary; but—­but you’re everything.  Your mother—­” he paused, staring at his finger-bowl of Venetian glass.

“Yes?"’

“I’ve only you to look to.  I’ve never had—­never wanted anything else, since you were born.”

“I know,” Fleur murmured.

Soames moistened his lips.

“You may think this a matter I can smooth over and arrange for you.  You’re mistaken.  I’m helpless.”

Fleur did not speak.

“Quite apart from my own feelings,” went on Soames with more resolution, “those two are not amenable to anything I can say.  They—­they hate me, as people always hate those whom they have injured.”  “But he—­Jon—­”

“He’s their flesh and blood, her only child.  Probably he means to her what you mean to me.  It’s a deadlock.”

“No,” cried Fleur, “no, Father!”

Soames leaned back, the image of pale patience, as if resolved on the betrayal of no emotion.

“Listen!” he said.  “You’re putting the feelings of two months—­two months—­against the feelings of thirty-five years!  What chance do you think you have?  Two months—­your very first love affair, a matter of half a dozen meetings, a few walks and talks, a few kisses—­against, against what you can’t imagine, what no one could who hasn’t been through it.  Come, be reasonable, Fleur!  It’s midsummer madness!”

Fleur tore the honeysuckle into little, slow bits.

“The madness is in letting the past spoil it all.

“What do we care about the past?  It’s our lives, not yours.”

Soames raised his hand to his forehead, where suddenly she saw moisture shining.

“Whose child are you?” he said.  “Whose child is he?  The present is linked with the past, the future with both.  There’s no getting away from that.”

She had never heard philosophy pass those lips before.  Impressed even in her agitation, she leaned her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands.

“But, Father, consider it practically.  We want each other.  There’s ever so much money, and nothing whatever in the way but sentiment.  Let’s bury the past, Father.”

His answer was a sigh.

“Besides,” said Fleur gently, “you can’t prevent us.”

“I don’t suppose,” said Soames, “that if left to myself I should try to prevent you; I must put up with things, I know, to keep your affection.  But it’s not I who control this matter.  That’s what I want you to realise before it’s too late.  If you go on thinking you can get your way and encourage this feeling, the blow will be much heavier when you find you can’t.”

“Oh!” cried Fleur, “help me, Father; you can help me, you know.”

Soames made a startled movement of negation.  “I?” he said bitterly.  “Help?  I am the impediment—­the just cause and impediment—­isn’t that the jargon?  You have my blood in your veins.”