"You look so pretty to-night," he said, "so very pretty. Do you know how

pretty you look, Annette?"

Annette withdrew her hand, and blushed. "Monsieur is very good."

"Not a bit good," said Soames, and sat down gloomily.

Annette made a little expressive gesture with her hands; a smile was

crinkling her red lips untouched by salve.

And, looking at those lips, Soames said:

"Are you happy over here, or do you want to go back to France?"

"Oh, I like London. Paris, of course. But London is better than Orleans,

and the English country is so beautiful. I have been to Richmond last

Sunday."

Soames went through a moment of calculating struggle. Mapledurham! Dared

he? After all, dared he go so far as that, and show her what there was

to look forward to! Still! Down there one could say things. In this room

it was impossible.

"I want you and your mother," he said suddenly, "to come for the

afternoon next Sunday. My house is on the river, it's not too late in

this weather; and I can show you some good pictures. What do you say?"

Annette clasped her hands.

"It will be lovelee. The river is so beautiful"

"That's understood, then. I'll ask Madame."

He need say no more to her this evening, and risk giving himself away.

But had he not already said too much? Did one ask restaurant proprietors

with pretty daughters down to one's country house without design? Madame

Lamotte would see, if Annette didn't. Well! there was not much that

Madame did not see. Besides, this was the second time he had stayed to

supper with them; he owed them hospitality.

Walking home towards Park Lane--for he was staying at his father's--with

the impression of Annette's soft clever hand within his own, his

thoughts were pleasant, slightly sensual, rather puzzled. Take steps!

What steps? How? Dirty linen washed in public? Pah! With his reputation

for sagacity, for far-sightedness and the clever extrication of others,

he, who stood for proprietary interests, to become the plaything of

that Law of which he was a pillar! There was something revolting in

the thought! Winifred's affair was bad enough! To have a double dose

of publicity in the family! Would not a liaison be better than that--a

liaison, and a son he could adopt? But dark, solid, watchful, Madame

Lamotte blocked the avenue of that vision. No! that would not work. It

was not as if Annette could have a real passion for him; one could not

expect that at his age. If her mother wished, if the worldly advantage

were manifestly great--perhaps! If not, refusal would be certain.

Besides, he thought: 'I'm not a villain. I don't want to hurt her; and

I don't want anything underhand. But I do want her, and I want a son!

There's nothing for it but divorce--somehow--anyhow--divorce!' Under the

shadow of the plane-trees, in the lamplight, he passed slowly along

the railings of the Green Park. Mist clung there among the bluish tree

shapes, beyond range of the lamps. How many hundred times he had walked

past those trees from his father's house in Park Lane, when he was quite

a young man; or from his own house in Montpellier Square in those four

years of married life! And, to-night, making up his mind to free himself

if he could of that long useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to walk

on, in at Hyde Park Corner, out at Knightsbridge Gate, just as he used

to when going home to Irene in the old days. What could she be like

now?--how had she passed the years since he last saw her, twelve years

in all, seven already since Uncle Jolyon left her that money? Was she

still beautiful? Would he know her if he saw her? 'I've not changed

much,' he thought; 'I expect she has. She made me suffer.' He remembered

suddenly one night, the first on which he went out to dinner alone--an

old Malburian dinner--the first year of their marriage. With what

eagerness he had hurried back; and, entering softly as a cat, had heard

her playing. Opening the drawing-room door noiselessly, he had stood

watching the expression on her face, different from any he knew, so much

more open, so confiding, as though to her music she was giving a heart

he had never seen. And he remembered how she stopped and looked round,

how her face changed back to that which he did know, and what an

icy shiver had gone through him, for all that the next moment he was

fondling her shoulders. Yes, she had made him suffer! Divorce! It seemed

ridiculous, after all these years of utter separation! But it would have

to be. No other way! 'The question,' he thought with sudden realism,

'is--which of us? She or me? She deserted me. She ought to pay for

it. There'll be someone, I suppose.' Involuntarily he uttered a little

snarling sound, and, turning, made his way back to Park Lane.




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