“What?  What?  Quick, Father!”

“My dear,” said Soames, “I—­I did my best, but—­” And again he shook his head.

Fleur ran to him, and put a hand on each of his shoulders.

“She?”

“No,” muttered Soames; “he.  I was to tell you that it was no use; he must do what his father wished before he died.”  He caught her by the waist.  “Come, child, don’t let them hurt you.  They’re not worth your little finger.”

Fleur tore herself from his grasp.

“You didn’t you—­couldn’t have tried.  You—­you betrayed me, Father!”

Bitterly wounded, Soames gazed at her passionate figure writhing there in front of him.

“You didn’t try—­you didn’t—­I was a fool!  Iwon’t believe he could—­he ever could!  Only yesterday he—!  Oh! why did I ask you?”

“Yes,” said Soames, quietly, “why did you?  I swallowed my feelings; I did my best for you, against my judgment—­and this is my reward.  Good-night!”

With every nerve in his body twitching he went toward the door.

Fleur darted after him.

“He gives me up?  You mean that?  Father!”

Soames turned and forced himself to answer: 

“Yes.”

“Oh!” cried Fleur.  “What did you—­what could you have done in those old days?”

The breathless sense of really monstrous injustice cut the power of speech in Soames’ throat.  What had he done!  What had they done to him!

And with quite unconscious dignity he put his hand on his breast, and looked at her.

“It’s a shame!” cried Fleur passionately.

Soames went out.  He mounted, slow and icy, to his picture gallery, and paced among his treasures.  Outrageous!  Oh!  Outrageous!  She was spoiled!  Ah! and who had spoiled her?  He stood still before the Goya copy.  Accustomed to her own way in everything.  Flower of his life!  And now that she couldn’t have it!  He turned to the window for some air.  Daylight was dying, the moon rising, gold behind the poplars!  What sound was that?  Why!  That piano thing!  A dark tune, with a thrum and a throb!  She had set it going—­what comfort could she get from that?  His eyes caught movement down there beyond the lawn, under the trellis of rambler roses and young acacia-trees, where the moonlight fell.  There she was, roaming up and down.  His heart gave a little sickening jump.  What would she do under this blow?  How could he tell?  What did he know of her—­he had only loved her all his life—­looked on her as the apple of his eye!  He knew nothing—­had no notion.  There she was—­and that dark tune—­and the river gleaming in the moonlight!

‘I must go out,’ he thought.

He hastened down to the drawing-room, lighted just as he had left it, with the piano thrumming out that waltz, or fox-trot, or whatever they called it in these days, and passed through on to the verandah.