he faint irony which would come into his voice and smile.

"This is Fleur Forsyte, Jolyon; Jon brought her down to see the house.
Let's have tea at once--she has to catch a train. Jon, tell them, dear,
and telephone to the Dragon for a car."

To leave her alone with them was strange, and yet, as no doubt his
mother had foreseen, the least of evils at the moment; so he ran up into
the house. Now he would not see Fleur alone again--not for a minute, and
they had arranged no further meeting! When he returned under cover of
the maids and teapots, there was not a trace of awkwardness beneath the
tree; it was all within himself, but not the less for that. They were
talking of the Gallery off Cork Street.

"We back numbers," his father was saying, "are awfully anxious to find
out why we can't appreciate the new stuff; you and Jon must tell us."

"It's supposed to be satiric, isn't it?" said Fleur.

He saw his father's smile.

"Satiric? Oh! I think it's more than that. What do you say, Jon?"

"I don't know at all," stammered Jon. His father's face had a sudden
grimness.

"The young are tired of us, our gods and our ideals. Off with their
heads, they say--smash their idols! And let's get back to-nothing! And,
by Jove, they've done it! Jon's a poet. He'll be going in, too, and
stamping on what's left of us. Property, beauty, sentiment--all smoke.
We mustn't own anything nowadays, not even our feelings. They stand in
the way of--Nothing."

Jon listened, bewildered, almost outraged by his father's words, behind
which he felt a meaning that he could not reach. He didn't want to stamp
on anything!

"Nothing's the god of to-day," continued Jolyon; "we're back where the
Russians were sixty years ago, when they started Nihilism."

"No, Dad," cried Jon suddenly, "we only want to live, and we don't know
how, because of the Past--that's all!"

"By George!" said Jolyon, "that's profound, Jon. Is it your own? The
Past! Old ownerships, old passions, and their aftermath. Let's have
cigarettes."

Conscious that his mother had lifted her hand to her lips, quickly, as
if to hush something, Jon handed the cigarettes. He lighted his father's
and Fleur's, then one for himself. Had he taken the knock that Val had
spoken of? The smoke was blue when he had not puffed, grey when he had;
he liked the sensation in his nose, and the sense of equality it gave
him. He was glad no one said: "So you've begun!" He felt less young.

Fleur looked