"I don't know anything about his father."

"No," said Soames, grimly. "He took an interest in horses and broke his
neck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for your aunt."
He frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs which he had
attended in Paris six years ago, because Montague Dartie could not
attend it himself--perfectly normal stairs in a house where they played
baccarat. Either his winnings or the way he had celebrated them had gone
to his brother-in-law's head. The French procedure had been very loose;
he had had a lot of trouble with it.

A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. "Look! The people who were
in the Gallery with us."

"What people?" muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well.

"I think that woman's beautiful."

"Come into this pastry-cook's," said Soames abruptly, and tightening
his grip on her arm he turned into a confectioner's. It was--for him--a
surprising thing to do, and he said rather anxiously: "What will you
have?"

"Oh! I don't want anything. I had a cocktail and a tremendous lunch."

"We must have something now we're here," muttered Soames, keeping hold
of her arm.

"Two teas," he said; "and two of those nougat things."