It seemed to Soames that she looked at him in a queer way. What did she

know? How much had her mother told her? The worry of trying to make that

out gave him an alarming feeling in the head. He gripped the edge of

the table, and dizzily saw Annette come forward, her eyes clear with

surprise. He shut his own and said:

"It's all right. I've had a touch of the sun, I think." The sun! What

he had was a touch of 'darkness! Annette's voice, French and composed,

said:

"Sit down, it will pass, then." Her hand pressed his shoulder, and

Soames sank into a chair. When the dark feeling dispersed, and he opened

his eyes, she was looking down at him. What an inscrutable and odd

expression for a girl of twenty!

"Do you feel better?"

"It's nothing," said Soames. Instinct told him that to be feeble

before her was not helping him--age was enough handicap without that.

Will-power was his fortune with Annette, he had lost ground these latter

months from indecision--he could not afford to lose any more. He got up,

and said:

"I'll write to your mother. I'm going down to my river house for a long

holiday. I want you both to come there presently and stay. It's just at

its best. You will, won't you?"

"It will be veree nice." A pretty little roll of that 'r' but no

enthusiasm. And rather sadly he added:

"You're feeling the heat; too, aren't you, Annette? It'll do you good to

be on the river. Good-night." Annette swayed forward. There was a sort

of compunction in the movement.

"Are you fit to go? Shall I give you some coffee?"

"No," said Soames firmly. "Give me your hand."

She held out her hand, and Soames raised it to his lips. When he looked

up, her face wore again that strange expression. 'I can't tell,' he

thought, as he went out; 'but I mustn't think--I mustn't worry:

But worry he did, walking toward Pall Mall. English, not of her

religion, middle-aged, scarred as it were by domestic tragedy, what had

he to give her? Only wealth, social position, leisure, admiration! It

was much, but was it enough for a beautiful girl of twenty? He felt so

ignorant about Annette. He had, too, a curious fear of the French nature

of her mother and herself. They knew so well what they wanted. They were

almost Forsytes. They would never grasp a shadow and miss a substance.

The tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to Madame Lamotte

when he reached his Club warned him still further that he was at the end

of his tether.




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