There was a moment of stillness, before he felt her arm slipping through his, and her lips against his ear.
‘Only the moon, my dear. Let’s go to bed.’
Chapter Seven
TWO VISITS
ON the very day that Fleur was freed from her nursing she received a visit from the last person in her thoughts. If she had not altogether forgotten the existence of one indelibly associated with her wedding day, she had never expected to see her again. To hear the words: ‘Miss June Forsyte, ma’am,’ and find her in front of the Fragonard, was like experiencing a very slight earthquake.
The silvery little figure had turned at her entrance, extending a hand clad in a fabric glove.
‘It’s a flimsy school, that,’ she said, pointing her chin at the Fragonard; ‘but I like your room. Harold Blade’s pictures would look splendid here. Do you know his work?’
Fleur shook her head.
‘Oh! I should have thought any –’ The little lady stopped, as if she had seen a brink.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ said Fleur. ‘Have you still got your gallery off Cork Street?’
‘That? Oh no! It was a hopeless place. I sold it for half what my father gave for it.’
‘And what became of that Polo-American – Boris Strumo something – you were so interested in?’
‘He! Oh! Gone to pieces utterly. Married, and does purely commercial work. He gets big prices for his things – no good at all. So Jon and his wife –’ Again she stopped, and Fleur tried to see the edge from which she had saved her foot.
‘Yes,’ she said, looking steadily into June’s eyes, which were moving from side to side, ‘Jon seems to have abandoned America for good. I can’t see his wife being happy over here.’
‘Ah!’ said June. ‘Holly told me you went to America yourself. Did you see Jon over there?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Did you like America?’
‘It’s very stimulating.’
June sniffed.
‘Do they buy pictures? I mean, do you think there’d be a chance for Harold Blade’s work there?’
‘Without knowing the work –’
‘Of course, I forgot; it seems so impossible that you don’t know it.’
She leaned towards Fleur and her eyes shone.
‘I do so want you to sit to him, you know; he’d make such a wonderful picture of you. Your father simply must arrange that. With your position in Society, Fleur, especially after that case last year,’ Fleur winced, if imperceptibly – ‘it would be the making of poor Harold. He’s such a genius,’ June added, frowning; ‘you must come and see his work.’
‘I should like to,’ said Fleur. ‘Have you seen Jon yet?’
‘No. They’re coming on Friday. I hope I shall like her. As a rule, I like all foreigners except Americans and the French. I mean – with exceptions of course.’
‘Naturally,’ said Fleur. ‘What time are you generally in?’
‘Every afternoon between five and seven are Harold’s hours for going out – he has my studio, you know. I can show you his work better without him; he’s so touchy – all real geniuses are. I want him to paint Jon’s wife, too. He’s extraordinary with women.’
‘In that case, I think you should let Jon see him and his work first.’
June’s eyes stared up at her for a moment, and flew off to the Fragonard.
‘When will your father come?’ she asked.
‘Perhaps it would be best for me to come first.’
‘Soames naturally likes the wrong thing,’ said June, thought-fully; ‘but if you tell him you want to be painted – he’s sure to – he always spoils you –’
Fleur smiled.
‘Well, I’ll come. Perhaps not this week.’ And, in thought, she added: ‘And perhaps, yes – Friday.’
June rose. ‘I like your house, and your husband. Where is he?’
‘Michael? Slumming, probably; he’s in the thick of a scheme for their conversion.’
‘How splendid! Can I see your boy?’
‘I’m afraid he’s only just over measles.’
June sighed. ‘It does seem long since I had measles. I remember Jon’s measles so well; I got him his first adventure books.’ Suddenly she looked up at Fleur: ‘Do you like his wife? I think it’s ridiculous his being married so young. I tell Harold he must never marry; it’s the end of adventure.’ Her eyes moved from side to side, as if she were adding: ‘Or the beginning, and I’ve never had it.’ And suddenly she held out both hands.
‘I shall expect you. I don’t know whether he’ll like your hair!’