To Let

“I don’t dislike you, Mr. Mont, but Fleur is everything to me. Everything—do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I know; but so she is to me.”

“That’s as may be. I’m glad you’ve told me, however. And now I think there’s nothing more to be said.”

“I know it rests with her, sir.”

“It will rest with her a long time, I hope.”

“You aren’t cheering,” said Mont suddenly.

“No,” said Soames; “my experience of life has not made me anxious to couple people in a hurry. Good-night, Mr. Mont. I shan’t tell Fleur what you’ve said.”

“Oh!” murmured Mont blankly; “I really could knock my brains out for want of her. She knows that perfectly well.”

“I dare say,” and Soames held out his hand. A distracted squeeze, a heavy sigh, and, soon after, sounds from the young man’s motor-cycle called up visions of flying dust and broken bones.

‘The younger generation!’ he thought heavily, and went out on to the lawn. The gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell of fresh-cut grass—the thundery air kept all scents close to earth. The sky was of a purplish hue—the poplars black. Two or three boats passed on the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm. ‘Three days fine weather,’ thought Soames, ‘and then a storm!’ Where was A

When the storm was over, he left his retreat and went down the wet path to the river bank.

Two swans had come, sheltering in among the reeds. He knew the birds well, and stood watching the dignity in the curve of those white necks and formidable snake-like heads. ‘Not dignified—what I have to do!’ he thought. And yet it must be tackled, lest worse befell. A

The swans had turned their heads, and were looking past him into some distance of their own. One of them uttered a little hiss, wagged its tail, turned as if answering to a rudder, and swam away. The other followed. Their white bodies, their stately necks, passed out of his sight, and he went towards the house.

A

“I’m going to shut the window; the damp’s lifting in.”

He did so, and stood looking at a David Cox adorning the cream-panelled wall close by.

What was she thinking of? He had never understood a woman in his life—except Fleur—and Fleur not always! His heart beat fast. But if he meant to do it, now was the moment. Turning from the David Cox, he took out the torn letter.

“I’ve had this.”

Her eyes widened, stared at him, and hardened.

Soames handed her the letter.

“It’s torn, but you can read it.” And he turned back to the David Cox—a seapiece, of good tone but without movement enough. ‘I wonder what that chap’s doing at this moment?’ he thought. ‘I’ll astonish him yet.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw A

“Dirrty!”

“I quite agree,” said Soames; “degrading. Is it true?”

A tooth fastened on her red lower lip. “And what if it were?”

She was brazen!

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No.”

“Well, speak out!”

“What is the good of talking?”

Soames said icily: “So you admit it?”

“I admit nothing. You are a fool to ask. A man like you should not ask. It is dangerous.”

Soames made a tour of the room, to subdue his rising anger.

“Do you remember,” he said, halting in front of her, “what you were when I married you? Working at accounts in a restaurant.”

“Do you remember that I was not half your age?”

Soames broke off the hard encounter of their eyes, and went back to the David Cox.

“I am not going to bandy words. I require you to give up this—friendship. I think of the matter entirely as it affects Fleur.”

“Ah!—Fleur!”

“Yes,” said Soames stubbornly; “Fleur. She is your child as well as mine.”

“It is kind to admit that!”

“Are you going to do what I say?”

“I refuse to tell you.”

“Then I must make you.”

A

“No, Soames,” she said. “You are helpless. Do not say things that you will regret.”

Anger swelled the veins on his forehead. He opened his mouth to vent that emotion, and—could not. A

“There shall be no more such letters, I promise you. That is enough.”

Soames writhed. He had a sense of being treated like a child by this woman who had deserved he did not know what.