re IS a young idiot, but he doesn't count."

Jon felt a twitch of compassion for the--young idiot.

"You know I've had sunstroke, I didn't tell you."

"Really! Was it interesting?"

"No. Mother was an angel. Has anything happened to YOU?"

"Nothing. Except that I think I've found out what's wrong between our
families, Jon."

His heart began beating very fast.

"I believe my father wanted to marry your mother, and your father got
her instead."

"Oh!"

"I came on a photo of her; it was in a frame behind a photo of me. Of
course, if he was very fond of her, that would have made him pretty
mad, wouldn't it?"

Jon thought for a minute. "Not if she loved my father best."

"But suppose they were engaged?"

"If we were engaged, and you found you loved somebody better, I might
go cracked, but I shouldn't grudge it you."

"I should. You mustn't ever do that with me, Jon."

"My God! Not much!"

"I don't believe that he's ever really cared for my mother."

Jon was silent. Val's words, the two past masters in the Club!

"You see, we don't know," went on Fleur; "it may have been a great
shock. She may have behaved badly to him. People do."

"My mother wouldn't."

Fleur shrugged her shoulders. "I don't think we know much about our
fathers and mothers. We just see them in the light of the way they
treat US; but they've treated other people, you know, before we were
born--plenty, I expect. You see, they're both old. Look at your father,
with three separate families!"

"Isn't there any place," cried Jon, "in all this beastly London where
we can be alone?"

"Only a taxi."

"Let's get one, then."

When they were installed, Fleur asked suddenly: "Are you going back to
Robin Hill? I should like to see where you live, Jon. I'm staying with
my aunt for the night, but I could get back in time for dinner. I
wouldn't come to the house, of course."

Jon gazed at her enraptured.

"Splendid! I can show it you from the copse, we shan't meet anybody.
There's a train at four."

The god of property and his Forsytes great and small, leisured,
official, commercial, or professional, unlike the working classes,
still worked their seven hours a day, so that those two of the fourth
generation travelled down to Robin Hill in an empty first-class
carriage, dusty and sun-warmed, of that too early train. They travelled
in blissful silence, holding each other's hands.

At the station they saw no one except porters, and a villag