‘Hallo! Was I snoring?’
‘No. But you were twitching like a dog, Jon.’
Jon got up and went to the window.
‘I was dreaming. It’s a beautiful night. A fine September’s the pick of the year.’
‘Yes; I love the “fall”. Is your mother coming over, soon?’
‘Not until we’re settled in. I believe she thinks we’re better without her.’
‘Your mother would always feel she was de trop before she was.’
‘That’s on the right side, anyway.’
‘Yes, I wonder if I should.’
Jon turned. She was sitting up, staring in front of her, frowning. He went over and kissed her.
‘Careful of your chest, darling!’ and he pulled up the clothes.
She lay back, gazing up at him; and again he wondered what she saw.…
He was met next day by June’s: ‘So Fleur was here yesterday and gave you a lift! I told her what I thought this morning.’
‘What did you think?’ said Jon.
‘That it mustn’t begin again. She’s a spoiled child not to be trusted.’
His eyes moved angrily.
‘You’d better leave Fleur alone.’
‘I always leave people alone,’ said June; ‘but this is my house, and I had to speak my mind.’
‘I’d better stop sitting then.’
‘Now, don’t be silly, Jon. Of course you can’t stop sitting – neither of you. Harold would be frightfully upset.’
‘Damn Harold!’
June took hold of his lapel.
‘That’s not what I meant at all. The pictures are going to be splendid. I only meant that you mustn’t meet here.’
‘Did you tell Fleur that?’
‘Yes.’
Jon laughed, and the sound of the laugh was hard.
‘We’re not children, June.’
‘Have you told Anne?’
‘No.’
‘There, you see!’
‘What?’
His face had become stubborn and angry.
‘You’re very like your father and grandfather, Jon – they couldn’t bear to be told anything.’
‘Can you?’
‘Of course, when it’s necessary.’
‘Then please don’t interfere.’
Pink rushed into June’s cheeks, tears into her eyes; she winked them away, shook herself, and said coldly:
‘I never interfere.’
‘No?’
She went more pink, and suddenly stroked his sleeve. That touched Jon, and he smiled.
He ‘sat’ disturbed all that afternoon, while the Rafaelite painted, and June hovered, sometimes with a frown, and sometimes with yearning in her face. He wondered what he should do if Fleur called for him again. But Fleur did not call, and he went home alone. The next day was Sunday and he did not go up; but on Monday when he came out of ‘The Poplars’, after ‘sitting’ he saw Fleur’s car standing by the kerb.
‘I do want to show you my house to-day. I suppose June spoke to you, but I’m a reformed character, Jon. Get in!’ And Jon got in.
The day was dull, neither lighted nor staged for emotion, and the ‘reformed character’ played her part to perfection. Not a word suggested that they were other than best friends. She talked of America, its language and books. Jon maintained that America was violent in its repressions and in its revolt against repressions.
‘In a word,’ said Fleur, ‘young.’
‘Yes; but so far as I can make out, it’s getting younger every year.’
‘I liked America.’
‘Oh! I liked it all right. I made quite a profit, too, on my orchard when I sold.’
‘I wonder you came back, Jon. The fact is – you’re old-fashioned.’
‘How?’
‘Take sex – I couldn’t discuss sex with you.’
‘Can you with other people?’
‘Oh! with nearly anyone. Don’t frown like that! You’d be awfully out of it, my dear, in London, or New York, for that matter.’
‘I hate fluffy talk about sex,’ said Jon, gruffly. ‘The French are the only people who understand sex. It isn’t to be talked about as they do here and in America; it’s much too real.’
Fleur stole another look.
‘Then let us drop that hot potato. I’m not sure whether I could even discuss art with you.’
‘Did you see that St Gaudens statue at Washington?’
‘Yes; but that’s vieux jeu nowadays.’
‘Is it?’ growled Jon. ‘What do they want, then?’
‘You know as well as I.’
‘You mean it must be unintelligible?’
‘Put it that way if you like. The point is that art now is just a subject for conversation; and anything that anybody can understand at first sight is not worth talking about and therefore not art’