could not spy on her. His heart felt empty, and bitterness mounted from
it into his very mouth. The staccato shouts of Jack Cardigan pursuing
the ball, the laugh of young Mont rose in the stillness and came in.
He hoped they were making that chap Profond run. And the girl in "La
Vendimia" stood with her arm akimbo and her dreamy eyes looking past
him. 'I've done all I could for you,' he thought, 'since you were no
higher than my knee. You aren't going to--to--hurt me, are you?'

But the Goya copy answered not, brilliant in colour just beginning to
tone down. 'There's no real life in it,' thought Soames. 'Why doesn't
she come?'




X.--TRIO

Among those four Forsytes of the third, and, as one might say, fourth
generation, at Wansdon under the Downs, a week-end prolonged unto the
ninth day had stretched the crossing threads of tenacity almost to
snapping-point. Never had Fleur been so "fine," Holly so watchful, Val
so stable-secretive, Jon so silent and disturbed. What he learned of
farming in that week might have been balanced on the point of a penknife
and puffed off. He, whose nature was essentially averse from intrigue,
and whose adoration of Fleur disposed him to think that any need for
concealing it was "skittles," chafed and fretted, yet obeyed, taking
what relief he could in the few moments when they were alone.
On Thursday, while they were standing in the bay window of the
drawing-room, dressed for dinner, she said to him: