e said.

"Oh! no, sir. We're awfully old nowadays. My dad seems to me a perfect
babe; his thinking apparatus hasn't turned a hair. But he's a
Baronight, of course; that keeps him back."

"Baronight," repeated Soames; "what may that be?"

"Bart, sir. I shall be a Bart some day. But I shall live it down, you
know."

"Go away and live this down," said Soames.

Young Mont said imploringly: "Oh! no, sir. I simply must hang round, or
I shouldn't have a dog's chance. You'll let Fleur do what she likes, I
suppose, anyway. Madame passes me."

"Indeed!" said Soames frigidly.

"You don't really bar me, do you?" and the young man looked so doleful
that Soames smiled.

"You may think you're very old," he said; "but you strike me as
extremely young. To rattle ahead of everything is not a proof of
maturity."

"All right, sir; I give you our age. But to show you I mean
business--I've got a job."

"Glad to hear it."

"Joined a publisher; my governor is putting up the stakes."

Soames put his hand over his mouth--he had so very nearly said: "God
help the publisher." His grey eyes scrutinised the agitated young man.

"I don't dislike you, Mr. Mont, but Fleur is everything to me.
Everything--do you understand?"

"Yes, sir, I know; but so she is to me."

"That's as may be. I'm glad you've told me, however. And now I think
there's nothing more to be said."

"I know it rests with her, sir."

"It will rest with her a long time, I hope."

"You aren't cheering," said Mont suddenly.

"No," said Soames; "my experience of life has not made me anxious to
couple people in a hurry. Good-night, Mr. Mont. I shan't tell Fleur
what you've said."

"Oh!" murmured Mont blankly; "I really could knock my brains out for
want of her. She knows that perfectly well."

"I dare say," and Soames held out his hand. A distracted squeeze, a
heavy sigh, and, soon after, sounds from the young man's motor-cycle
called up visions of flying dust and broken bones.

'The younger generation!' he thought heavily, and went out on to the
lawn. The gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell of
fresh-cut grass--the thundery air kept all scents close to earth. The
sky was of a purplish hue--the poplars black. Two or three boats passed
on the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm.
'Three days fine weather,' thought Soames, 'and then a storm!' Where
was Annette? With that chap, for all he knew--she was a young woman!
Imp