No! He couldn’t see her thoughts. Good thing, perhaps! Who could afford to have his thoughts seen? The recesses, ramifications, excesses of thought! Only when sieved and filtered was thought fit for exposure. And again Soames looked sidelong at his daughter.
She was thinking, indeed, to purposes that would have upset him. How was she going to see Jon alone before he left for Wansdon? She could call to-morrow, of course, openly at Green Street, and probably not see him. She could ask him to lunch in South Square, but hardly without his wife or her own husband. There was in fact, no way of seeing him alone except by accident. And she began trying to plan one. On the point of perceiving that the essence of an accident was that it could not be planned, she planned it She would go to Green Street at nine in the morning to consult Holly on the canteen accounts. After such strenuous days Holly and Anne might surely be breakfasting in bed. Val had gone back to Wansdon, Aunt Winifred never got up! Jon might be alone! And she turned to Soames:
‘Awfully sweet of you, Dad, to be airing me; I am enjoying it.’
‘Like to get out and have a look at the ducks? The swans have got a brood at Mapledurham again this year.’
The swans! How well she remembered the six little grey destroyers following the old swans over the green-tinged water, that six-year-gone summer of her love! Crossing the grass down to the Serpentine, she felt a sort of creeping sweetness. But nobody – nobody should know of what went on inside her. Whatever happened – and, after all, most likely nothing would happen – she would save face this time – strongest motive in the world, as Michael said.
‘Your grandfather used to bring me here when I was a shaver,’ said her father’s voice beside her. It did not add: ‘And I used to bring that wife of mine when we were first married.’ Irene! She had liked water and trees. She had liked all beauty, and she hadn’t liked him!
‘Eton jackets. Sixty years ago and more. Who’d have thought it then?’
‘Who’d have’ thought what, Dad? That Eton jackets would still be in?’
‘That chap – Tennyson, wasn’t it? – “The old order changedi, giving place to new.” I can’t see you in high necks and skirts down to your feet, to say nothing of bustles. Women then were defended up to the nines, but you knew just as much about them as you do now – and that’s precious little.’
‘I wonder. Do you think people’s passions are what they used to be, Dad?’
Soames brooded into his hand. Now, why had she said that? He had once told her that a grand passion was a thing of the past, and she had replied that she had one. And suddenly he was back in steamy heat, redolent of earth and potted pelargonium, kicking a hot water-pipe in a greenhouse at Maple-durham. Perhaps she’d been right; there was always a lot of human nature about.
‘Passions!’ he said. ‘Well, you still read of people putting their heads under the gas. In old days they used to drown themselves. Let’s go and have tea at that kiosk place.’
When they were seated, and the pigeons were enjoying his cake, he took a long look at her. She had her legs crossed – and very nice they were! – and just that difference in her body from the waist up, from so many young women he saw about. She didn’t sit in a curve, but with a slight hollow in her back giving the impression of backbone and a poise to her head and neck. She was shingled again – the custom had unexpected life – but, after all, her neck was remarkably white and round. Her face – short, with its firm rounded chin, very little powder and no rouge, with its dark-lashed white lids, clear-glancing hazel eyes, short, straight nose and broad low brow, with the chestnut hair over its ears, and its sensibly kissable mouth – really it was a credit!
‘I should think,’ he said, ‘you’d be glad to have more time for Kit again. He’s a rascal. What d’you think he asked me for yesterday – a hammer!’
‘Yes; he’s always breaking things up. I smack him as little as possible, but it’s unavoidable at times – nobody else is allowed to. Mother got him used to it while we were away, so he looks on it as all in the day’s work.’
‘Children,’ said Soames, ‘are funny things. We weren’t made such a fuss of when I was young.’
‘Forgive me, Dad, but I think you make more fuss of him than anybody.’
‘What?’ said Soames. ‘I?’
‘You do exactly as he tells you. Did you give him the hammer?’
‘Hadn’t one – what should I carry hammers about for?’
Fleur laughed. ‘No; but you take him so seriously. Michael takes him ironically.’