‘What do you want me to do then?’ she said with a sort of disgust.
‘Could I see Jon here tomorrow on his way down to Holly’s? He’d come if you sent him a line tonight. And perhaps afterward 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 tomorrow. 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 I’ 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 toward the door.
‘Good-bye!’
‘Good-bye!… Little piece of fashion!’ muttered June, closing the door. ‘That family!’ And she marched back toward her studio. Boris Strumolowski had regained his Christ-like 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’ genli who at one time or another 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.’
Chapter Eight
THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH
To know that your hand is against everyone’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. And she smiled to herself on the top of the bus which carried her back to Mayfair. But the smile died, squeezed out by spasms of anticipation and anxiety. Would she be able to manage Jon? She had taken the bit between her teeth, but could she make him take it too? She knew the truth and the real danger of delay – he knew neither; therein lay all the difference in the world.
‘Suppose I tell him,’ she thought; ‘wouldn’t it really be safer?’ This hideous luck had no right to spoil their love; he must see that! They could not let it! People always accepted an accomplished fact in time! From that piece of philosophy – profound enough at her age – she passed to another consideration less philosophic. If she persuaded Jon to a quick and secret marriage, and he found out afterward that she had known the truth. What then? Jon hated subterfuge. Again, then, would it not be better to tell him? But the memory of his mother’s face kept intruding on that impulse. Fleur was afraid. His mother had power over him; more power perhaps than she herself. Who could tell? It was too great a risk. Deep-sunk in those instinctive calculations she was carried on past Green Street as far as the Ritz Hotel. She got down there, and walked back on the Green Park side. The storm had washed every tree; they still dripped. Heavy drops fell on to her frills, and to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes of the Iseeum Club. Chancing to look up she saw Monsieur Profond with a tall stout man in the bay window. Turning into Green Street she heard her name called, and saw ‘that prowler’ coming up. He took off his hat – a glossy ‘bowler’ such as she particularly detested.
‘Good evenin’! Miss Forsyde. Isn’t there a small thing I can do for you?’
‘Yes, pass by on the other side.’
‘I say! Why do you dislike me?’
‘Do I?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Well, then, because you make me feel life isn’t worth living.’
Monsieur Profond smiled.
‘Look here, Miss Forsyde, don’t worry. It’ll be all right Nothing lasts.’
‘Things do last,’ cried Fleur; ‘with me anyhow – especially likes and dislikes.’