ised how much he must have
felt their absence. He summoned to his aid the thought: 'Well, I didn't
want to go!' It was out of date for Youth to defer to Age. But Jon was
by no means typically modern. His father had always been "so jolly" to
him, and to feel that one meant to begin again at once the conduct
which his father had suffered six weeks' loneliness to cure, was not
agreeable.

At the question, "Well, old man, how did the great Goya strike you?"
his conscience pricked him badly. The great Goya only existed because
he had created a face which resembled Fleur's.

On the night of their return he went to bed full of compunction; but
awoke full of anticipation. It was only the fifth of July, and no
meeting was fixed with Fleur until the ninth. He was to have three days
at home before going back to farm. Somehow he must contrive to see her!

In the lives of men an inexorable rhythm, caused by the need for
trousers, not even the fondest parents can deny. On the second day,
therefore, Jon went to Town, and having satisfied his conscience by
ordering what was indispensable in Conduit Street, turned his face
towards Piccadilly. Stratton Street, where her Club was, adjoined
Devonshire House. It would be the merest chance that she should be at
her Club. But he dawdled down Bond Street with a beating heart,
noticing the superiority of all other young men to himself. They wore
their clothes with such an air; they had assurance; they were OLD. He
was suddenly overwhelmed by the conviction that Fleur must have
forgotten him. Absorbed in his own feeling for her all these weeks, he
had mislaid that possibility. The corners of his mouth drooped, his
hands felt clammy. Fleur with the pick of youth at the beck of her
smile--Fleur incomparable! It was an evil moment. Jon, however, had a
great idea that one must be able to face anything. And he braced
himself with that dour reflection in front of a bric-a-brac shop. At
this high-water mark of what was once the London season, there was
nothing to mark it out from any other except a grey top hat or two, and
the sun. Jon moved on, and turning the corner into Piccadilly, ran into
Val Dartie moving towards the Iseeum Club, to which he had just been
elected.

"Hallo! young man! Where are you off to?"

Jon flushed. "I've just been to my tailor's."

Val looked him up and down. "That's good! I'm going in here to order
some cigarettes, then come and have some lunch."

Jon thanked him.