Why did such pictures come back before closed eyes—pictures without rhyme or reason? Irene brushing her hair—grey now, of course! As he was seventy, she must be nearly sixty-two! How time went! Hair feuille morte—old Aunt Juley used to call it with a certain pride in having picked up the expression—and eyes so velvet dark! Ah! but handsome was as handsome did! Still—who could say! Perhaps, if he had known how to express his feelings! If he had understood music! If she hadn’t so excited his senses! Perhaps—oh, perhaps your grandmother! No riddling that out! And here—of all places. A tricksy business! Was one never to forget?

Fleur went to pack and dress. Dinner came up. Michael spoke of having met a refreshing young couple at Mount Vernon, “an Englishman; he said Mount Vernon made him awfully homesick.”

“What was his name, Michael?”

“Name? I didn’t ask. Why?”

“Oh! I don’t know. I thought you might have.”

Soames breathed again. He had seen her prick her ears. Give it a chance, and her feeling for that boy of Irene’s would flare up again. It was in the blood!

“Bright Markland,” said Michael, “has been gassing over the future of America—he’s very happy about it because there are so many farmers still, and people on the land; but he’s also been gassing over the future of England—he’s very happy about it, and there’s hardly anybody on the land.”

“Who’s Bright Markland?” muttered Soames.

“Editor of our Scrutator, sir. Never was a better example of optimism, or the science of having things both ways.”

“I’d hoped,” said Soames heavily, “that seeing these new countries would have made you feel there’s something in an old one, after all.”

Michael laughed. “No need to persuade me of that, sir. But you see I belong to what is called the fortunate class, and so, I believe, do you.”

Soames stared. This young man was getting sarcastic!

“Well,” he said, “I shall be glad to be home. Are you packed?”