‘Very sorry for himself.’
‘In my opinion,’ said Soames, ‘there’s a great deal more in fleas than they think. That dog of his may have picked up a measley flea. I wonder the doctors don’t turn their attention to fleas.’
‘I wonder they don’t turn their attention to slums,’ said Michael; ‘that’s where the fleas come from.’
Again Soames stared. Had his son-in–law got slums in his bonnet now? His manifestations of public spirit were very disturbing. Perhaps he’d been going round those places, and brought the flea in himself, or some infection or other.
‘Have you sent for the doctor?’
‘Yes; he’ll be here any minute.’
‘Is he any good, or just the ordinary cock-and-bull type?’
‘The same man we had for Fleur.’
‘Oh! Ah! I remember – too much manner, but shrewd. Doctors!’
There was silence in the polished room, while they waited for the bell to ring; and Soames brooded. Should he tell Michael about the afternoon? His mouth opened once, but nothing came out. Over and over again his son-in–law had surprised him by the view he took of things. And he only stared at Michael, who was gazing out of the window – queer face the young fellow had; plain, and yet attractive with those pointed ears and eyebrows running up on the outside – wasn’t always thinking of himself like good-looking young men seemed to be. Good-looking men were always selfish; got spoiled, he supposed. He would give a penny for the young fellow’s thoughts.
‘Here he is!’ said Michael, jumping up.
Soames was alone again. How long alone, he didn’t know, for he was tired, and, in spite of his concern, he dozed. The opening of the door roused him in time to assume anxiety before Fleur spoke.
‘It’s almost certainly measles, Dad.’
‘Oh!’ said Soames, blankly, ‘What about nursing?’
‘Nurse and I, of course.’
That’ll mean you can’t get about.’
‘And aren’t you glad?’ her face seemed to say. How she read his thoughts!
God knew he wasn’t glad of anything that troubled her – and yet –!
‘Poor little chap!’ he said, evasively: ‘Your mother must come back. I must try and find him something that’ll take his attention off.’
‘Don’t trouble, Dad; he’s too feverish, poor darling. Dinner’s ready. I’m having mine upstairs.’
Soames rose and went up to her.
‘Don’t you be worrying,’ he said. ‘All children –’
Fleur put her arm out.
‘Not too near, Dad. No, I won’t worry.’
‘Give him my love,’ said Soames. ‘He won’t care for it.’
Fleur looked at him. Her lips smiled a very little. Her eyelids winked twice. Then she turned and went out, and Soames thought:
‘She – poor little thing! I’m no use!’ It was of her, not of his grandson, that he thought.
Chapter Four
IN THE MEADS
THE Meads of St Augustine had, no doubt, once on a time been flowery, and burgesses had walked there of a Sunday, plucking nosegays. If there were a flower now, it would be found on the altar of the Reverend Hilary’s church, or on Mrs Hilary’s dining-table. The rest of a numerous population had heard of these unnatural products, and, indeed, seeing them occasionally in baskets, would utter the words: ‘Aoh! Look at the luv-ly flahers!’
When Michael visited his uncle, according to promise, on Ascot Cup Day, he was ushered hurriedly into the presence of twenty little Augustinians on the point of being taken in a covered motor-van for a fortnight among flowers in a state of nature. His Aunt May was standing among them. She was a tall woman with bright brown shingled hair going grey, and the slightly rapt expression of one listening to music. Her smile was very sweet, and this, with the puzzled twitch of her delicate eyebrows, as who should say placidly: ‘What next, I wonder?’ endeared her to everyone. She had emerged from a rectory in Huntingdonshire, in the early years of the century, and had married Hilary at the age of twenty. He had kept her busy ever since. Her boys and girl were all at school now, so that in term time she had merely some hundreds of Augustinians for a family. Hilary was wont to say: ‘May’s a wonder. Now that she’s had her her hair off, she’s got so much time on her hands that we’re thinking of keeping guinea-pigs. If she’d only let me grow a beard, we could really get a move on.’
She greeted Michael with a nod and a twitch.
‘Young London, my dear,’ she said, privately, ‘just off to Leatherhead. Rather sweet, aren’t they?’