might have known it,' thought June;
'she's Soames' daughter--fish! And yet--he!'

"Well, what do you want ME to do?" she said with a sort of disgust.

"Could I see Jon here to-morrow on his way down to Holly's? He'd come
if you sent him a line to-night, and perhaps afterwards you'd let them
know quietly at Robin Hill that it's all over, and that they needn't
tell Jon about his mother."

"All right!" said June abruptly. "I'll write now, and you can post it.
Half-past two to-morrow. I shan't be in, myself."

She sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. When she
looked round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the
poppies with her gloved finger.

June licked a stamp. "Well, here it is. If you're not in love, of
course, there's no more to be said. Jon's lucky."

Fleur took the note. "Thanks awfully!"

'Cold-blooded little baggage!' thought June. Jon, son of her father, to
love, and not to be loved by the daughter of--Soames! It was
humiliating!

"Is that all?"

Fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed towards the
door.

"Good-bye!"

"Good-bye! ... Little piece of fashion!" muttered June, closing the
door. "That family!" And she marched back towards her studio. Boris
Strumolowski had regained his Christlike silence, and Jimmy Portugal
was damning everybody, except the group in whose behalf he ran the
Neo-Artist. Among the condemned were Eric Cobbley, and several other
"lame-duck" genii who at one time or another had held first place in
the repertoire of June's aid and adoration. She experienced a sense of
futility and disgust, and went to the window to let the river-wind blow
those squeaky words away.

But when at length Jimmy Portugal had finished, and gone with Hannah
Hobdey, she sat down and mothered young Strumolowski for half an hour,
promising him a month, at least, of the American stream; so that he
went away with his halo in perfect order. 'In spite of all,' June
thought, 'Boris IS wonderful.'

VIII

THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH

To know that your hand is against every one's is--for some natures--to
experience a sense of moral release. Fleur felt no remorse when she
left June's house. Reading condemnatory resentment in her little
kinswoman's blue eyes--she was glad that she had fooled her, despising
June because that elderly idealist had not seen what she was after.

End it, forsooth! She would soon show them all that she was only just
beginning. A