“Fleur, would you take a note of that?”
“Yes.”
And she wrote down on her tablets: “Ask Michael what I was to take a note of.”
“Mrs. Mont!”
“Yes, Sir Timothy?”
“Could you get up one of those what d’you call ‘ems for us?”
“Matinees?”
“No, no—jumble sales, don’t they call ’em?”
“Certainly.”
The more she got up for them the more impeccable her reputation, the greater her freedom, and the more she would deserve, and ironically enjoy, her stolen life.
Hilary speaking now. What would HE think if he knew?
“But I think we OUGHT to have a matinee, Fleur. The public are so good, they’ll always pay a guinea to go to what most of them would give a guinea any day not to go to. What so you say, Bishop?”
“A matinee—by all means!”
“Matinees—dreadful things!”
“Not if we got a pleasant play, Mr. Forsyte—something a little old-fashioned—one of L.S.D.‘s. It would advertise us, you know. What do you think, Marquess?”
“My granddaughter Marjorie would get one up for you. It would do her good.”
“H’m. If SHE gets it up, it won’t be old-fashioned.” And Fleur saw her father’s face turning towards her, as he spoke. If only he knew how utterly she was beyond all that; how trivial to her seemed that heart-burning of the past.
“Mr. Montross, have you a theatre in your pocket?”
“I can get you one, Mr. Charwell.”
“First rate! Then, will you and the Marquess and my nephew here take that under your wings? Fleur, tell us how your Rest–House is doing?”
“Perfectly, Uncle Hilary. It’s quite full. The girls are delightful.”
“Wild lot, I should think—aren’t they?”
“Oh! no, Sir Timothy; they’re quite model.”
If only the old gentleman could see over his moustache into the model lady who controlled them!
“Well then, that’s that. If there’s nothing more, Mr. Chairman, will you excuse me? I’ve got to meet an American about ants. We aren’t properly shaking up these landlords in my opinion. Good-night to you all!”
Motioning to Michael to stay behind, Fleur rose to see Sir Timothy out.
“Which umbrella is yours, Sir Timothy?”
“I don’t know; that looks the best. If you get up a jumble sale, Mrs. Mont, I wish you’d sell the Bishop at it. I can’t stand a fellow with a plum in his mouth, especially in the Chair.”
Fleur smiled, and the “old boy” cocked his hat at her. They all cocked their hats at her, and that was pleasant! But would they if they knew! Dusk among the trees of the Square Garden, the lights just turned up—what luck to have such weather—dry and warm! She stood in the doorway, taking long breaths. By this time tomorrow she meant to be a dishonest wife! Well, not more than she had always been in secret aspiration.
‘I’m glad Kit’s down at “The Shelter”,’ she thought. HE should never know, no one should! There would be no change—no change in anything except in her and Jon. The Life Force would break bounds in a little secret river, which would flow—ah, where? Who cared?
“My dear Mont, honesty was never the best policy from a material point of view. The sentiment is purely Victorian. The Victorians were wonderful fellows for squaring circles.”
“I agree, Marquess, I agree; they could think what they wanted better than anybody. When times are fat, you can.”
Those two in the hall behind her—dried-up and withered! Fleur turned to them with her smile.
“My dear young lady—the evening air! You won’t take cold?”
“No thank you, sir; I’m warm all through.”
“How nice that is!”
“May I give you a lift, Marquess?”
“Thank you, Mr. Montross. Wish I could afford a car myself. Are you coming our way, Mont? Do you know that song, Mr. Montross: ‘We’ll all go round to Alice’s house’? It seems to have a fascination for my milk boy. I often wonder who Alice is? I have a suspicion she may not be altogether proper. Good-night to you, Mrs. Mont. How charming your house is!”
“Good-night, sir!”
His hand; “the walrus’s”; her father-inlaw’s.
“Kit all right, Fleur?”
“First rate.”
“Good-night, my dear!”
His dear—the mother of his grandson! ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow!’
The rug wrapped round the cargo of age, the door shut—what, a smooth and silent car! Voices again:
“Will you have a taxi, Uncle Hilary?”
“No, thank you, Michael, the Bishop and I will walk.”
“Then I’ll come with you as far as the corner. Coming, Sir Godfrey? By-bye, darling. Your Dad’s staying to dinner. I’ll be back from old Blythe’s about ten.”
The animals went out four by four!
“Don’t stand there; you’ll get cold!” Her father’s voice! The one person whose eyes she feared. She must keep her mask on now.
“Well, Dad, what have you been doing today? Come into the ‘parlour’—we’ll have dinner quite soon.”
“How’s your picture? Is this fellow taking care not to exaggerate? I think I’d better have a look at it.”
“Not just yet, dear. He’s a very touchy gentleman.”
“They’re all that. I thought of going down West tomorrow to see where the Forsytes sprang from. I suppose you couldn’t take a rest and come?”
Fleur heard, without giving a sign of her relief.
“How long will you be away, Dad?”
“Back on the third day. ‘Tisn’t two hundred miles.”
“I’m afraid it would put my painter out.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d care to. There’s no kudos there. But I’ve meant to for a long time; and the weather’s fine.”
“I’m sure it will be frightfully interesting, dear; you must tell me all about it. But what with the portrait and my Rest–House, I’m very tied, just now.”
“Well, then, I’ll look for you at the week-end. Your mother’s gone to some friends—they do nothing but play bridge; she’ll be away till Monday. I always want you, you know,” he added, simply. And to avoid his eyes she got up.
“I’ll just run up now, Dad, and change. Those Slum Committee Meetings always make me feel grubby. I don’t know why.”
“They’re a waste of time,” said Soames. “There’ll always be slums. Still, it’s something for you both to do.”