‘Yes; and I said I pitied them. Well?’
‘Repression is stupid, you know, Jon.’ And, by instinct, added: ‘That’s why I doubt the Public Schools. They teach it.’
‘They’re useful socially, Fleur,’ and his eyes twinkled.
Fleur pursed her lips. She did not mind. But she would make him sorry for that; because his compunction would be a trump card in her hand.
‘I know perfectly well,’ she said, ‘that I’m a snob – I was called so publicly.’
‘What!’
‘Oh, yes; there was a case about it.’
‘Who dared?’
‘Oh! my dear, that’s ancient history. But of course you knew – Francis Wilmot must have – ’
Jon made a horrified gesture.
‘Fleur, you never thought I – ’
‘Oh, but of course! Why not?’ A trump, indeed! Jon seized her hand.
‘Fleur, say you knew I didn’t –’
Fleur shrugged her shoulders. ‘My dear, you have lived too long among the primitives. Over here we stab each other daily, and no harm is done.’
He dropped her hand, and she looked at him from beneath her lids.
‘I was only teasing, Jon. It’s good for primitives to have their legs pulled. Parlons d’autre chose. Have you found your place, to grow things, yet?’
‘Practically.’
‘Where?’
‘About four miles from Wansdon, on the south side of the downs – Green Hill Farm. Fruit – a lot of grass; and some arable.’
‘Why, it must be close to where I’m going with Kit. That’s on the sea and only five miles from Wansdon. No, Jon; don’t be alarmed. We shall only be there three weeks at most.’
‘Alarmed! It’s very jolly. We shall see you there. Perhaps we shall meet at Goodwood anyway.’
‘I’ve been thinking –’ Fleur paused, and again she stole a look. ‘We can be steady friends, Jon, can’t we?’
Jon answered, without looking up. ‘I hope so.’
If his face had cleared, and his voice had been hearty, how different – how much slower – would have been the beating of her heart!
‘Then that’s all right,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve been wanting to say that to you ever since Ascot. Here we are, and here we shall be – and anything else would be silly, wouldn’t it? This is not the romantic age.’
‘H’m!’
‘What do you mean by that unpleasant noise?’
‘I always think it’s rot to talk about ages being this or that. Human feelings remain the same.’
‘Do you really think they do? The sort of life we live affects them. Nothing’s worth more than a tear or two, Jon. I found that out. But I forgot – you hate cynicism. Tell me about Anne. Is she still liking England?’
‘Loving it. You see, she’s pure Southern, and the South’s old still, too, in a way – or some of it is. What she likes here is the grass, the birds, and the villages. She doesn’t feel homesick. And, of course, she loves the riding.’
‘I suppose she’s picking up English fast?’
And to his stare she made her face quite candid.
‘I should like you to like her,’ he said, wistfully.
‘Oh! of course I shall, when I know her.’
But a fierce little wave of contempt passed up from her heart. What did he think she was made of? Like her! A girl who lay in his arms, who would be the mother of his children. Like her I And she began to talk about the preservation of Box Hill. And all the rest of the way till Jon got out at Pulborough, she was more wary than a cat – casual and friendly, with clear candid eyes, and a little tremble up at him when she said:
‘Au revoir, then, at Goodwood, if not before! This has been a jolly accident!’
But on the way to her hotel, driving in a station fly through air that smelled of oysters, she folded her lips between her teeth, and her eyes were damp beneath her frowning brows.
Chapter Nine
BUT-JONI
BUT Jon, who had over five miles to walk, started with the words of the Old English song beating a silent tattoo within him:
‘How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away!’
To such confusion had he come, contrary to intention, but in accordance with the impulses of a loyal disposition. Fleur had been his first love, Anne his second. But Anne was his wife, and Fleur the wife of another. A man could not be in love with two women at once, so he was tempted to conclude that he was not in love with either. Why, then, the queer sensations of his circulatory system? Was popular belief in error? A French, or Old-English way of looking at his situation, did not occur to him. He had married Anne, he loved Anne – she was a darling! There it ended! Why, then, walking along a grassy strip beside the road, did he think almost exclusively of Fleur? However cynical, or casual, or just friendly she might seem, she no more deceived him than she at heart wished to. He knew she had her old feeling for him, just as he knew he had it, or some of it, for her. But then he had feeling for another, too. Jon was not more of a fool than other men, nor was he more self-deceiving. Like other men before him, he intended to face what was, and to do what he believed to be right; or, rather, not to do what he believed to be wrong. Nor had he any doubt as to what was wrong. His trouble was more simple. It consisted in not having control of his thoughts and feelings greater than that with which any than has hitherto been endowed. After all, it had not been his fault that he had once been wholly in love with Fleur, nor that she had been wholly in love with him; not his fault that he had met her again, nor that she was still in love with him. Nor again was it his fault that he was in love with his native land and tired of being out of it.