cks gilded by the
sunlight. Memory of the day when Fleur was born, and he had waited in
such agony with her life and her mother's balanced in his hands, came
to him sharply. He had saved her then, to be the flower of his life. And
now! was she going to give him trouble--pain--give him trouble? He did
not like the look of things! A blackbird broke in on his reverie with
an evening song--a great big fellow up in that acacia-tree. Soames had
taken quite an interest in his birds of late years; he and Fleur would
walk round and watch them; her eyes were sharp as needles, and she knew
every nest. He saw her dog, a retriever, lying on the drive in a patch
of sunlight, and called to him. "Hallo, old fellow-waiting for her too!"
The dog came slowly with a grudging tail, and Soames mechanically laid
a pat on his head. The dog, the bird, the lilac, all were part of Fleur
for him; no more, no less. 'Too fond of her!' he thought, 'too fond!' He
was like a man uninsured, with his ships at sea. Uninsured again--as in
that other time, so long ago, when he would wander dumb and jealous in
the wilderness of London, longing for that woman--his first wife--the
mother of this infernal boy. Ah! There was the car at last! It drew up,
it had luggage, but no Fleur.

"Miss Fleur is walking up, sir, by the towing-path."

Walking all those miles? Soames stared. The man's face had the beginning
of a smile on it. What was he grinning at? And very quickly he turned,
saying, "All right, Sims!" and went into the house. He mounted to the
picture-gallery once more. He had from there a view of the river bank,
and stood with his eyes fixed on it, oblivious of the fact that it would
be an hour at least before her figure showed there. Walking up! And
that fellow's grin! The boy--! He turned abruptly from the window. He
couldn't spy on her. If she wanted to keep things from him--she must; he
could not spy on her. His heart felt empty, and bitterness mounted from
it into his very mouth. The staccato shouts of Jack Cardigan pursuing
the ball, the laugh of young Mont rose in the stillness and came in.
He hoped they were making that chap Profond run. And the girl in "La
Vendimia" stood with her arm akimbo and her dreamy eyes looking past
him. 'I've done all I could for you,' he thought, 'since you were no
higher than my knee. You aren't going to--to--hurt me, are you?'

But the Goya copy answered not, brilliant in colour just beginning to
tone down. 'There's no