第37章

"It's all right, I've been having tea with your people. I thought I'd save you the last bit. It's on my way, I'm just off back to Pangbourne. My name's Mont. I saw you at the picture-gallery--you remember--when your father invited me to see his pictures.""Oh!" said Fleur; "yes--the handkerchief."To this young man she owed Jon; and, taking his hand, she stepped down into the skiff. Still emotional, and a little out of breath, she sat silent; not so the young man. She had never heard any one say so much in so short a time. He told her his age, twenty-four;his weight, ten stone eleven; his place of residence, not far away;described his sensations under fire, and what it felt like to be gassed; criticized the Juno, mentioned his own conception of that goddess; commented on the Goya copy, said Fleur was not too awfully like it; sketched in rapidly the condition of England; spoke of Monsieur Profond--or whatever his name was--as "an awful sport";thought her father had some "ripping" pictures and some rather "dug-up"; hoped he might row down again and take her on the river because he was quite trustworthy; inquired her opinion of Tchekov, gave her his own; wished they could go to the Russian ballet together some time--considered the name Fleur Forsyte simply topping; cursed his people for giving him the name of Michael on the top of Mont;outlined his father, and said that if she wanted a good book she should read "Job"; his father was rather like Job while Job still had land.

"But Job didn't have land," Fleur murmured; "he only had flocks and herds and moved on.""Ah!" answered Michael Mont, "I wish my gov'nor would move on. Not that I want his land. Land's an awful bore in these days, don't you think?""We never have it in my family," said Fleur. "We have everything else. I believe one of my great-uncles once had a sentimental farm in Dorset, because we came from there originally, but it cost him more than it made him happy.""Did he sell it?""No; he kept it."

"Why?"

"Because nobody would buy it."

"Good for the old boy!"

"No, it wasn't good for him. Father says it soured him. His name was Swithin.""What a corking name!""Do you know that we're getting farther off, not nearer? This river flows.""Splendid!" cried Mont, dipping his sculls vaguely; "it's good to meet a girl who's got wit.""But better to meet a young man who's got it in the plural."Young Mont raised a hand to tear his hair.

"Look out!" cried Fleur. "Your scull!"

"All right! It's thick enough to bear a scratch.""Do you mind sculling?" said Fleur severely. "I want to get in.""Ah!" said Mont; "but when you get in, you see, I shan't see you any more to-day. Fini, as the French girl said when she jumped on her bed after saying her prayers. Don't you bless the day that gave you a French mother, and a name like yours?""I like my name, but Father gave it me. Mother wanted me called Marguerite.""Which is absurd. Do you mind calling me M. M. and letting me call you F. F.? It's in the spirit of the age.""I don't mind anything, so long as I get in."Mont caught a little crab, and answered: "That was a nasty one!""Please row.""I am." And he did for several strokes, looking at her with rueful eagerness. "Of course, you know," he ejaculated, pausing, "that Icame to see you, not your father's pictures."Fleur rose.

"If you don't row, I shall get out and swim.""Really and truly? Then I could come in after you.""Mr. Mont, I'm late and tired; please put me on shore at once."When she stepped out on to the garden landing-stage he rose, and grasping his hair with both hands, looked at her.

Fleur smiled.

"Don't!" cried the irrepressible Mont. "I know you're going to say:

'Out, damned hair!'"

Fleur whisked round, threw him a wave of her hand. "Good-bye, Mr.

M.M.!" she called, and was gone among the rose-trees. She looked at her wrist-watch and the windows of the house. It struck her as curiously uninhabited. Past six! The pigeons were just gathering to roost, and sunlight slanted on the dovecot, on their snowy feathers, and beyond in a shower on the top boughs of the woods. The click of billiard-balls came from the ingle-nook--Jack Cardigan, no doubt; a faint rustling, too, from an eucalyptus-tree, startling Southerner in this old English garden. She reached the verandah and was passing in, but stopped at the sound of voices from the drawing-room to her left. Mother! Monsieur Profond! From behind the verandah screen which fenced the ingle-nook she heard these words:

"I don't, Annette."

Did Father know that he called her mother "Annette"? Always on the side of her Father--as children are ever on one side or the other in houses where relations are a little strained--she stood, uncertain.

Her mother was speaking in her low, pleasing, slightly metallic voice--one word she caught: "Demain." And Profond's answer: "All right." Fleur frowned. A little sound came out into the stillness.

Then Profond's voice: "I'm takin' a small stroll."Fleur darted through the window into the morning-room. There he came from the drawing-room, crossing the verandah, down the lawn; and the click of billiard-balls which, in listening for other sounds, she had ceased to hear, began again. She shook herself, passed into the hall, and opened the drawing-room door. Her mother was sitting on the sofa between the windows, her knees crossed, her head resting on a cushion, her lips half parted, her eyes half closed. She looked extraordinarily handsome.

"Ah! Here you are, Fleur! Your father is beginning to fuss.""Where is he?""In the picture-gallery. Go up!"

"What are you going to do to-morrow, Mother?""To-morrow? I go up to London with your aunt.""I thought you might be. Will you get me a quite plain parasol?"What colour?""Green. They're all going back, I suppose.""Yes, all; you will console your father. Kiss me, then."Fleur crossed the room, stooped, received a kiss on her forehead, and went out past the impress of a form on the sofa-cushions in the other corner. She ran up-stairs.