"I want to see the race-horses," murmured Fleur; "and they've promised I shall ride. Cousin Val can't walk much, you know; but he can ride perfectly. He's going to show me their gallops.""Racing!" said Soames. "It's a pity the War didn't knock that on the head. He's taking after his father, I'm afraid.""I don't know anything about his father.""No," said Soames, grimly. "He took an interest in horses and broke his neck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for your aunt." He frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which he had attended in Paris six years ago, because. Montague Dartie could not attend it himself--perfectly normal stairs in a house where they played baccarat. Either his winnings or the way he had celebrated them had gone to his brother-in-law's head. The French procedure had been very loose; he had had a lot of trouble with it.
A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. "Look! The people who were in the Gallery with us.""What people?" muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well.
"I think that woman's beautiful."
"Come into this pastry-cook's," said Soames abruptly, and tightening his grip on her arm he turned into a confectioner's. It was--for him--a surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously: "What will you have?""Oh! I don't want anything. I had a cocktail and a tremendous lunch.""We must have something now we're here," muttered Soames, keeping hold of her arm.
"Two teas," he said; "and two of those nougat things."But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. Those three--those three were coming in! He heard Irene say something to her boy, and his answer:
"Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right. My stunt." And the three sat down.
At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts and shadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had ever loved--his divorced wife and his daughter by her successor--Soames was not so much afraid of them as of his cousin June. She might make a scene--she might introduce those two children--she was capable of anything. He bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck to his plate. Working at it with his finger, he glanced at Fleur.
She was masticating dreamily, but her eyes were on the boy. The Forsyte in him said: "Think, feel, and you're done for!" And he wiggled his finger desperately. Plate! Did Jolyon wear a plate?
Did that woman wear a plate? Time had been when he had seen her wearing nothing! That was something, anyway, which had never been stolen from him. And she knew it, though she might sit there calm and self-possessed, as if she had never been his wife. An acid humour stirred in his Forsyte blood; a subtle pain divided by hair's breadth from pleasure. If only June did not suddenly bring her hornets about his ears! The boy was talking.
"Of course, Auntie June"--so he called his half-sister "Auntie," did he?--well, she must be fifty, if she was a day!--" it's jolly good of you to encourage them. Only--hang it all!" Soames stole a glance.
Irene's startled eyes were bent watchfully on her boy. She--she had these devotions--for Bosinney--for that boy's father--for this boy!
He touched Fleur's arm, and said:
"Well, have you had enough?"
"One more, Father, please."
She would be sick! He went to the counter to pay. When he turned round again he saw Fleur standing near the door, holding a handkerchief which the boy had evidently just handed to her.
"F. F.," he heard her say. "Fleur Forsyte--it's mine all right.
Thank you ever so."
Good God! She had caught the trick from what he'd told her in the Gallery--monkey!
"Forsyte? Why--that's my name too. Perhaps we're cousins.""Really! We must be. There aren't any others. I live at Mapledurham; where do you?""Robin Hill."Question and answer had been so rapid that all was over before he could lift a finger. He saw Irene's face alive with startled feeling, gave the slightest shake of his head, and slipped his arm through Fleur's.
"Come along!" he said.
She did not move.
"Didn't you hear, Father? Isn't it queer--our name's the same. Are we cousins?""What's that?" he said. "Forsyte? Distant, perhaps.""My name's Jolyon, sir. Jon, for short.""Oh! Ah!" said Soames. "Yes. Distant. How are you? Very good of you. Good-bye!"He moved on.
"Thanks awfully," Fleur was saying. "Au revoir!""Au revoir!" he heard the boy reply.
II
FINE FLEUR FORSYTE
Emerging from the "pastry-cook's," Soames' first impulse was to vent his nerves by saying to his daughter: 'Dropping your hand-kerchief!'
to which her reply might well be: 'I picked that up from you!' His second impulse therefore was to let sleeping dogs lie. But she would surely question him. He gave her a sidelong look, and found she was giving him the same. She said softly:
"Why don't you like those cousins, Father?" Soames lifted the corner of his lip.
"What made you think that?"
"Cela se voit."
'That sees itself!' What a way of putting it! After twenty years of a French wife Soames had still little sympathy with her language; a theatrical affair and connected in his mind with all the refinements of domestic irony.
"How?" he asked.
"You must know them; and you didn't make a sign. I saw them looking at you.""I've never seen the boy in my life," replied Soames with perfect truth.
"No; but you've seen the others, dear."
Soames gave her another look. What had she picked up? Had her Aunt Winifred, or Imogen, or Val Dartie and his wife, been talking? Every breath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, and Winifred warned many times that he wouldn't have a whisper of it reach her for the world. So far as she ought to know, he had never been married before. But her dark eyes, whose southern glint and clearness often almost frightened him, met his with perfect innocence.
"Well," he said, "your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel.
The two families don't know each other."
"How romantic!"
