mes stared for a moment out
of his grey eyes, till diverted by the print of a Victorian picture on
the walls. The hotel had bought three dozen of that little lot! The old
hunting or "Rake's Progress" prints in the old inns were worth looking
at--but this sentimental stuff--well, Victorianism had gone! "Tell them
to hold on!" old Timothy had said. But to what were they to hold on in
this modern welter of the "democratic principle"? Why, even privacy was
threatened! And at the thought that privacy might perish, Soames pushed
back his teacup and went to the window. Fancy owning no more of Nature
than the crowd out there owned of the flowers and trees and waters of
Hyde Park! No, no! Private possession underlay everything worth having.
The world had slipped its sanity a bit, as dogs now and again at full
moon slipped theirs and went off for a night's rabbiting; but the world,
like the dog, knew where its bread was buttered and its bed warm, and
would come back sure enough to the only home worth having--to private
ownership. The world was in its second childhood for the moment, like
old Timothy--eating its titbit first!

He heard a sound behind him, and saw that his wife and daughter had come
in.

"So you're back!" he said.

Fleur did not answer; she stood for a moment looking at him and her
mother, then passed into her bedroom. Annette poured herself out a cup
of tea.

"I am going to Paris, to my mother, Soames." "Oh! To your mother?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"I do not know."

"And when are you going?"

"On Monday."

Was she really going to her mother? Odd, how indifferent he felt! Odd,
how clearly she had perceived the indifference he would feel so long as
there was no scandal. And suddenly between her and himself he saw
distinctly the face he had seen that afternoon--Irene's.

"Will you want money?"

"Thank you; I have enough."

"Very well. Let us know when you are coming back."

Annette put down the cake she was fingering, and, looking up through
darkened lashes, said:

"Shall I give Maman any message?"

"My regards."

Annette stretched herself, her hands on her waist, and said in French:

"What luck that you have never loved me, Soames!" Then rising, she too
left the room. Soames was glad she had spoken it in French--it seemed to
require no dealing with. Again that other face--pale, dark-eyed,
beautiful still! And there stirred far down within him the ghost of
warmth, as from