“Mr. Francis Wilmot.”
He stood there, large as the life he had nearly resigned—a little thinner, that was all.
“Well, Francis,” she said, “I thought you were ‘through with that fool business’?”
Francis Wilmot came gravely up and took her hand. “I sail tomorrow.”
Sail! Well, she could put up with that. He seemed to her just a thin, pale young man with dark hair and eyes and no juices in his system.
“I read the evening papers. I wondered if, perhaps, you’d wish to see me.”
Was he mocking her? But he wore no smile; there was no bitterness in his voice; and, though he was looking at her intently, she could not tell from his face whether he still had any feeling.
“You think I owe you something? I know I treated you very badly.”
He looked rather as if she’d hit him.
“For heaven’s sake, Francis, don’t say you’ve come out of chivalry. That’d be too funny.”
“I don’t follow you; I just thought, perhaps, you didn’t like to answer that question about a love-affair—because of me.”
Marjorie Ferrar broke into hysterical laughter.
“Senor Don Punctilio! Because of you? No, no, my dear!”
Francis Wilmot drew back, and made her a little bow.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said.
She had a sudden return of feeling for that slim unusual presence, with its grace and its dark eyes.
“I’m a free-lance again now, Francis, anyway.”
A long moment went by, and then he made her another little bow. It was a clear withdrawal.
“Then for God’s sake,” she said, “go away! I’m fed up!” And she turned her back on him.
When she looked round, he HAD gone, and that surprised her. He was a new variety, or a dead one, dug up! He didn’t know the rudiments of life—old-fashioned, a faire rire! And, back at full length on the divan, she brooded. Well, her courage was ‘not out’! To-morrow was Bella Magussie’s ‘At Home,’ to meet—some idiot. Everybody would be there, and so would she!
Chapter VIII.
FANTOCHES
Michael, screwed towards Sir James Foskisson’s averted face, heard the words: “Well, I shan’t answer,” he spun round. It was just as if she had said: “Yes, I have.” The judge was looking at her, every one looking at her. Wasn’t Bullfry going to help her? No! He was beckoning her out of the Box. Michael half rose, as she passed him. By George! He was sorry for MacGown! There he sat, poor devil! – with every one getting up all round him, still, and red as a turkey-cock.
Fleur! Michael looked at her face, slightly flushed, her gloved hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ground. Had his whisper: ‘Stop this!’ his little abortive bow, offended her? How could one have helped sympathising with the ‘Pet of the Panjoys’ in so tight a place! Fleur must see that! The Court was emptying—fine birds, many—he could see her mother and her aunt and cousin, and Old Forsyte, talking with Foskisson. Ah! he had finished; was speaking: “We can go now.”
They followed him along the corridor, down the stairs, into the air.
“We’ve time for a snack,” Soames was saying. “Come in here!”
In one of several kennels without roofs in a celebrated room with a boarded floor, they sat down.
“Three chump chops, sharp,” said Soames, and staring at the cruet-stand, added: “She’s cooked her goose. They’ll drop it like a hot potato. I’ve told Foskisson he can settle, with both sides paying their own costs. It’s more than they deserve.”
“He ought never to have asked that question, sir.”
Fleur looked up sharply.
“Really, Michael!”
“Well, darling, we agreed he shouldn’t. Why didn’t Bullfry help her out, sir?”
“Only too glad to get her out of the Box; the judge would have asked her himself in another minute. It’s a complete fiasco, thank God!”
“Then we’ve won?” said Fleur.
“Unless I’m a Dutchman,” answered Soames.
“I’m not so sure,” muttered Michael.
“I tell you it’s all over; Bullfry’ll never go on with it.”
“I didn’t mean that, sir.”
Fleur said acidly: “Then what DO you mean, Michael?”
“I don’t think we shall be forgiven, that’s all.”
“What for?”
“Well, I dare say I’m all wrong. Sauce, sir?”
“Worcester—yes. This is the only place in London where you can rely on a floury potato. Waiter—three glasses of port, quick!”
After fifteen minutes of concentrated mastication, they returned to the Court.
“Wait here,” said Soames, in the hall; “I’ll go up and find out.”
In that echoing space, where a man’s height was so inconsiderable, Fleur and Michael stood, not speaking, for some time.
“She couldn’t know that Foskisson had been told not to follow it up, of course,” he said, at last. “Still, she must have expected the question. She should have told a good one and have done with it. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.”
“You’d feel sorry for a flea that bit you, Michael. What do you mean by our not being forgiven?”
“Well! The drama was all on her side, and it’s drama that counts. Besides, there’s her engagement!”
“That’ll be broken off.”
“Exactly! And if it is, she’ll have sympathy; while if it isn’t, he’ll have it. Anyway, we shan’t. Besides, you know, she stood up for what we all really believe nowadays.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Well, don’t we talk of every one being free?”
“Yes, but is there any connection between what we say and what we do?”
“No,” said Michael.
And just then Soames returned.
“Well, sir?”
“As I told you, Bullfry caught at it. They’ve settled. It’s a moral victory.”
“Oh! not moral, I hope, sir.”
“It’s cost a pretty penny, anyway,” said Soames, looking at Fleur. “Your mother’s quite annoyed—she’s no sense of proportion. Very clever the way Foskisson made that woman lose her temper.”
“He lost his, at the end. That’s his excuse, I suppose.”
“Well,” said Soames, “it’s all over! Your mother’s got the car; we’ll take a taxi.”
On the drive back to South Square, taking precisely the same route, there was precisely the same silence.
When a little later Michael went over to the House, he was edified by posters.
“Society Libel Action.”
“Marquess’s Granddaughter and K. C.”
“Dramatic Evidence.”
“Modern Morality!”
All over—was it? With publicity—in Michael’s opinion—it had but just begun! Morality! What was it—who had it, and what did they do with it? How would he have answered those questions himself? Who could answer them, nowadays, by rote or rule? Not he, or Fleur! They had been identified with the Inquisition, and what was their position, now? False, if not odious! He passed into the House. But, try as he would, he could not fix his attention on the Purity of Food, and passed out again. With a curious longing for his father, he walked rapidly down Whitehall. Drawing blank at ‘Snooks’’ and The Aeroplane, he tried the Parthenaeum as a last resort. Sir Lawrence was in a corner of a forbidden room, reading a life of Lord Palmerston. He looked up at his son.