"I don't know what we're coming to."

"Oh! That's all right, sir," answered the young man cheerfully;
"they don't either."

Fleur's voice said, precisely as if he had been keeping her
waiting:

"Hallo, Father! There you are!"

The young man, snatching off his hat, passed on.

"Well," said Soames, looking her up and down, "you're a punctual
sort of young woman!"

This treasured possession of his life was of medium height and
color, with short, dark-chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes
were set in whites so clear that they glinted when they moved, and
yet in repose were almost dreamy under very white, black-lashed
lids, held over them in a sort of suspense. She had a charming
profile, and nothing of her father in her face save a decided
chin. Aware that his expression was softening as he looked at her,
Soames frowned to preserve the unemotionalism proper to a Forsyte.
He knew she was only too inclined to take advantage of his
weakness.

Slipping her hand under his arm, she said:

"Who was that?"