“These accounts,” she said. “I’m to see that official ass at ten. Did you order all these sides of bacon?”
The thin sallow hand took the accounts, and between the large grey eyes came a furrow.
“Nine? No—yes; that’s right. Have you seen Jon?”
“Yes; he’s the only early bird. Will you all come to lunch with us tomorrow?”
“If you think it’ll be wise, Fleur.”
“I think it’ll be pleasant.”
She met the search of the grey eyes steadily, and with secret anger. No one should see into her—no one should interfere!
“All right then, we’ll expect you all four at one-thirty. I must run now.”
She did run; but since she really had no appointment with any “official ass,” she went back into the Green Park and sat down.
So that was Jon—now! Terribly like Jon—then! His eyes deeper, his chin more obstinate—that perhaps was all the difference. He still had his sunny look; he still believed in things. He still—admired her. Ye-es! A little wind talked above her in a tree. The day was surprisingly fine—the first really fine day since Easter! What should she give them for lunch? How should she deal with Dad? He must not be there! To have perfect command of oneself was all very well; to have perfect command of one’s father was not so easy. A pattern of leaves covered her short skirt, the sun warmed her knees; she crossed them and leaned back. Eve’s first costume—a pattern of leaves… “Wise?” Holly had said, Who knew? Shrimp cocktails? No! English food. Pancakes—certainly!… To get rid of Dad, she must propose herself with Kit at Mapledurham for the day after; then he would go, to prepare for them. Her mother was still in France. The others would be gone to Wansdon. Nothing to wait for in town. A nice warm sun on her neck. A scent of grass—of honeysuckle! Oh! dear!
Chapter X.
AFTER LUNCH
That the most pregnant function of human life is the meal, will be admitted by all who take part in these recurrent crises. The impossibility of getting down from table renders it the most formidable of human activities among people civilised to the point of swallowing not only their food but their feelings.
Such a conclusion at least was present to Fleur during that lunch. That her room was Spanish, reminded her that it was not with Jon she had spent her honeymoon in Spain. There had been a curious moment, too, before lunch; for, the first words Jon had spoken on seeing Michael, had been:
“Hallo! This is queer! Was Fleur with you that day at Mount Vernon?”
What was this? Had she been kept in the dark?
Then Michael had said:
“You remember, Fleur? The young Englishman I met at Mount Vernon.”
“‘Ships that pass in the night!’” said Fleur.
Mount Vernon! So THEY had met there! And she had not!
“Mount Vernon is lovely. But you ought to see Richmond, Anne. We could go after lunch. You haven’t been to Richmond for ages, I expect, Aunt Winifred. We could take Robin Hill on the way home, Jon.”
“Your old home, Jon? Oh! Do let’s!”
At that moment she hated the girl’s eager face at which Jon was looking.
“There’s the potentate,” he said.
“Oh!” said Fleur, quickly, “He’s at Monte Carlo. I read it yesterday. Could you come, Michael?”
“Afraid I’ve got a Committee. And the car can only manage five.”
“It would be just too lovely!”
Oh! that American enthusiasm! It was comforting to hear her Aunt’s flat voice opining that it would be a nice little run—the chestnuts would be out in the Park.
Had Michael really a Committee? She often knew what Michael really had, she generally knew more or less what he was thinking, but now she did not seem to know. In telling him last night of this invitation to lunch, she had carefully obliterated the impression by an embrace warmer than usual—he must not get any nonsense into his head about Jon! When, too, to her father she had said:
“Couldn’t Kit and I come down to you the day after tomorrow; but you’ll want a day there first, I’m afraid, if Mother’s not there,” how carefully she had listened to the tone of his reply:
“H’m! Ye—es! I’ll go down tomorrow morning.”
Had he scented anything; had Michael scented anything? She turned to Jon.
“Well, Jon, what d’you think of my house?”
“It’s very like you.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“To the house? Of course.”
“Francis didn’t exaggerate then?”
“Not a bit.”
“You haven’t seen Kit yet. We’ll have him down. Coaker, please ask Nurse to bring Kit down, unless he’s asleep… He’ll be three in July; quite a good walker already. It makes one frightfully old!”
The entrance of Kit and his silver dog caused a sort of cooing sound, speedily checked, for three of the women were of Forsyte stock, and the Forsytes did not coo. He stood there, blue and rather Dutch, with a slight frown and his hair bright, staring at the company.
“Come here, my son. This is Jon—your second cousin once removed.”
Kit advanced.
“S’all I bwing my ‘orse in?”
“Horse, Kit. No; shake hands.”
The small hand went up; Jon’s hand came down.
“You got dirty nails.”
She saw Jon flush, heard Anne’s: “Isn’t he just too cunning?” and said:
“Kit, you’re very rude. So would you have, if you’d been stoking an engine.”
“Yes, old man, I’ve been washing them ever since, but I can’t get them clean.”
“Why?”
“It’s got into the skin.”
“Le’ me see.”
“Go and shake hands with your great-aunt, Kit.”
“No.”
“Dear little chap,” said Winifred. “Such a bore, isn’t it, Kit?”
“Very well, then, go out again, and get your manners, and bring them in.”
“All wight.”
His exit, closed in by the silver dog, was followed by a general laugh; Fleur said, softly:
“Little wretch—poor Jon!” And through her lashes she saw Jon give her a grateful look…
In this mid-May fine weather the view from Richmond Hill had all the width and leafy charm which had drawn so many Forsytes in phaetons and barouches, in hansom cabs and motor cars from immemorial time, or at least from the days of George the Fourth. The winding river shone discreetly, far down there; and the trees of the encompassing landscape, though the oaks were still goldened, had just begun to have a brooding look; in July they would be heavy and blueish. Curiously, few houses showed among the trees and fields; very scanty evidence of man, within twelve miles of London! The spirit of an older England seemed to have fended jerry-builders from a prospect sacred to the ejaculations of four generations.
Of those five on the terrace Winifred best expressed that guarding spirit, with her:
“Really, it’s a very pretty view!”
A view—a view! And yet a view was not what it had been when old Jolyon travelled the Alps with that knapsack of brown leather and square shape, still in his grandson Jon’s possession; or Swithin above his greys, rolling his neck with consequence toward the lady by his side, had pointed with his whip down at the river and pouted: “A pooty little view!” Or James, crouched over his long knees in some gondola, had examined the Grand Canal at Venice with doubting eyes, and muttered: “They never told me the water was this colour!” Or Nicholas, taking his constitutional at Matlock, had opined that the gorge was the finest in England. No, a view was not what it had been! George Forsyte and Montague Dartie, with their backs to it, quizzically contemplating the Liberty ladies brought down to be fed, had started that rot; and now the young folk didn’t use the expression, but just ejaculated: “Christ!” or words to that effect.
But there was Anne, of course, like an American, with clasped hands, and:
“Isn’t it too lovely, Jon? It’s sort of romantic!”
And so to the Park, where Winifred chanted automatically at sight of the chestnuts, and every path and patch of fern and fallen tree drew from Holly or Jon some riding recollection.
“Look, Anne, that’s where I threw myself off my pony as a kid when I lost my stirrup and got so bored with being bumped.”