All this time she possessed her soul with only the scantiest news of Jon. A letter from Holly told her that negotiations for Green Hill Farm were ‘hanging fire’ over the price, though Jon was more and more taken with it; and Anne daily becoming more rural and more English. Rondavel was in great form again, and expected to win at Doncaster. Val had already taken a long shot about him for the Derby next year.
Fleur replied in a letter so worded as to give the impression that she had no other interest in the world just then but her new scheme. They must all drive over to see whether her ‘Rest House’ didn’t beat the canteen. The people were ‘such dears’ – it was all ‘terribly amusing’. She wished to convey the feeling that she had no fears of herself, no alarm in the thought of Jon; and that her work in life was serious. Michael, never wholly deserted by the naïveté of a good disposition, was more and more deceived. To him her mind seemed really occupied; and certainly her body, for she ran up from Dorking almost daily and spent the week-ends with him either at ‘The Shelter’, where Kit was installed with his grandparents, or at Lippinghall, where they always made a fuss of Fleur. Rowing her on the river in bland weather, Michael recaptured a feeling of security. ‘Old Forsyte’ must have let his imagination run away with him, the old boy was rather like a hen where Fleur was concerned, clucking and turning an inflamed eye on everything that came near!
Parliament had risen, and slum conversion work was now all that he was doing. These days on that river, which he ever associated with his wooing, were the happiest he had spent since the strike began – the strike that in narrowed form dragged wearyingly on, so that people ceased to mention it, the weather being warm.
And Soames? By his daughter’s tranquil amiability, he, too, was tranquillized. He would look at Michael and say nothing, in accordance with the best English traditions, and his own dignity. It was he who revived the idea of Fleur’s getting painted by June’s ‘lame duck’. He felt it would occupy her mind still further. He would like, however, to see the fellow’s work first, though he supposed it would mean a visit to June’s.
‘If she were to be out,’ he said to Fleur, ‘I shouldn’t mind having a look round her studio.’
‘Shall I arrange that, then, Dad?’
‘Not too pointedly,’ said Soames; ‘or she’ll get into a fantod.’
Accordingly at the following week-end Fleur said to him:
‘If you’ll come up with me on Monday, dear, we’ll go round. The Rafaelite will be in, but June won’t. She doesn’t want to see you any more than you want to see her.’
‘H’m!’ said Soames. ‘She always spoke her mind.’
They went up in his car. After forming his opinion Soames was to return, and Fleur to go on home. The Rafaelite met them at the head of the stairs. To Soames he suggested a bullfighter (not that he had ever seen one in the flesh), with his short whiskers and his broad, pale face which wore the expression: ‘If you suppose yourself capable of appreciating my work, you make a mistake.’ Soames’s face, on the other hand wore the expression: ‘If you suppose that I want to appreciate your work, you make a greater.’ And, leaving him to Fleur, he began to look round. In truth he was not unfavourably impressed. The work had turned its back on modernity. The surfaces were smooth, the drawing in perspective, and the colouring full. He perceived a new note, or rather the definite revival of an old one. The chap had undoubted talent; whether it would go down in these days he did not know, but its texture was more agreeable to live with than any he had seen for some time. When he came to the portrait of June he stood for a minute, with his head on one side, and then said, with a pale smile:
‘You’ve got her to the life.’ It pleased him to think that June had evidently not seen in it what he saw. But when his eyes fell on the picture of Anne, his face fell, too, and he looked quickly at Fleur, who said:
‘Yes, Dad? What do you think of that?’
The thought had flashed through Soames’s mind: ‘Is it to get in touch with him that she’s ready to be painted?’
‘Finished?’ he asked.
The Rafaelite answered:
‘Yes. Going down to them tomorrow.’
Soames’s face rose again. That risk was over then!
‘Quite clever!’ he murmured. ‘The lily’s excellent.’ And he passed on to a sketch of the woman who had opened the door to them.
‘That’s recognisable! Not at all bad.’
In these quiet ways he made it clear that, while he approved on the whole, he was not going to pay any extravagant price. He took an opportunity when Fleur was out of hearing, and said: