He rose.

“Well, the fat’s in the fire.  If you persist in your wilfulness you’ll have yourself to blame.  Come!  Don’t be foolish, my child—­my only child!”

Fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder.

All was in such turmoil within her.  But no good to show it!  No good at all!  She broke away from him, and went out into the twilight, distraught, but unconvinced.  All was indeterminate and vague within her, like the shapes and shadows in the garden, except—­her will to have.  A poplar pierced up into the dark-blue sky and touched a white star there.  The dew wetted her shoes, and chilled her bare shoulders.  She went down to the river bank, and stood gazing at a moonstreak on the darkening water.  Suddenly she smelled tobacco smoke, and a white figure emerged as if created by the moon.  It was young Mont in flannels, standing in his boat.  She heard the tiny hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the water.

“Fleur,” came his voice, “don’t be hard on a poor devil!  I’ve been waiting hours.”

“For what?”

“Come in my boat!”

“Not I.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not a water-nymph.”

“Haven’t you any romance in you?  Don’t be modern, Fleur!”

He appeared on the path within a yard of her.

“Go away!”

“Fleur, I love you.  Fleur!”

Fleur uttered a short laugh.

“Come again,” she said, “when I haven’t got my wish.”

“What is your wish?”

“Ask another.”

“Fleur,” said Mont, and his voice sounded strange, “don’t mock me!  Even vivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before they’re cut up for good.”

Fleur shook her head; but her lips were trembling.

“Well, you shouldn’t make me jump.  Give me a cigarette.”

Mont gave her one, lighted it, and another for himself.

“I don’t want to talk rot,” he said, “but please imagine all the rot that all the lovers that ever were have talked, and all my special rot thrown in.”

“Thank you, I have imagined it.  Good-night!” They stood for a moment facing each other in the shadow of an acacia-tree with very moonlit blossoms, and the smoke from their cigarettes mingled in the air between them.

“Also ran:  ’Michael Mont’?” he said.  Fleur turned abruptly toward the house.  On the lawn she stopped to look back.  Michael Mont was whirling his arms above him; she could see them dashing at his head; then waving at the moonlit blossoms of the acacia.  His voice just reached her.  “Jolly-jolly!” Fleur shook herself.  She couldn’t help him, she had too much trouble of her own!  On the verandah she stopped very suddenly again.  Her mother was sitting in the drawing-room at her writing bureau, quite alone.  There was nothing remarkable in the expression of her face except its utter immobility.  But she looked desolate!  Fleur went upstairs.  At the door of her room she paused.  She could hear her father walking up and down, up and down the picture-gallery.