The Forsyte Saga - Volume 3

The studio, where they had been sorting and labelling, had once been

Holly's schoolroom, devoted to her silkworms, dried lavender, music,

and other forms of instruction. Now, at the end of July, despite its

northern and eastern aspects, a warm and slumberous air came in between

the long-faded lilac linen curtains. To redeem a little the departed

glory, as of a field that is golden and gone, clinging to a room which

its master has left, Irene had placed on the paint-stained table a bowl

of red roses. This, and Jolyon's favourite cat, who still clung to

the deserted habitat, were the pleasant spots in that dishevelled, sad

workroom. Jon, at the north window, sniffing air mysteriously scented

with warm strawberries, heard a car drive up. The lawyers again about

some nonsense! Why did that scent so make one ache? And where did it

come from--there were no strawberry beds on this side of the house.

Instinctively he took a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, and

wrote down some broken words. A warmth began spreading in his chest; he

rubbed the palms of his hands together. Presently he had jotted this:

"If I could make a little song A little song to soothe my heart! I'd

make it all of little things The plash of water, rub of wings, The

puffing-off of dandies crown, The hiss of raindrop spilling down, The

purr of cat, the trill of bird, And ev'ry whispering I've heard From

willy wind in leaves and grass, And all the distant drones that pass. A

song as tender and as light As flower, or butterfly in flight; And when

I saw it opening, I'd let it fly and sing!"

He was still muttering it over to himself at the window, when he

heard his name called, and, turning round, saw Fleur. At that amazing

apparition, he made at first no movement and no sound, while her clear

vivid glance ravished his heart. Then he went forward to the table,

saying, "How nice of you to come!" and saw her flinch as if he had

thrown something at her.

"I asked for you," she said, "and they showed me up here. But I can go

away again."

Jon clutched the paint-stained table. Her face and figure in its frilly

frock photographed itself with such startling vividness upon his eyes,

that if she had sunk through the floor he must still have seen her.

"I know I told you a lie, Jon. But I told it out of love."

"Yes, oh! yes! That's nothing!"

"I didn't answer your letter. What was the use--there wasn't anything to

answer. I wanted to see you instead." She held out both her hands, and

Jon grasped them across the table. He tried to say something, but all

his attention was given to trying not to hurt her hands. His own felt so

hard and hers so soft. She said almost defiantly: