Francis Wilmot bowed. “I shall be proud, ma’am.”
“Yes; but you must call me Fleur. We’re sort of related, you know.”
The young man smiled, and touched the name with his lips.
“Fleur! It’s a beautiful name!”
“Your room will be ready when you come back. You’ll have a bathroom to yourself, of course.”
He put his lips to the hand held out.
“It’s wonderful,” he said. “I was feeling kind of homesick; I miss the sun over here.”
In going out, he looked back. Fleur had put her baby back in its nest, and was staring straight before her.
Chapter II.
CHANGE
But more than the death of a dog had caused the regarnishing of Fleur’s Chinese room. On the evening of her twenty-second birth-day Michael had come home saying:
“Well, my child, I’ve chucked publishing. With old Danby always in the right—it isn’t a career.”
“Oh! Michael, you’ll be bored to death.”
“I’ll go into Parliament. It’s quite usual, and about the same screw.”
He had spoken in jest. Six days later it became apparent that she had listened in earnest.
“You were absolutely right, Michael. It’s the very thing for you. You’ve got ideas.”
“Other people’s.”
“And the gift of the gab. We’re frightfully handy for the House, here.”
“It costs money, Fleur.”
“Yes; I’ve spoken to father. It was rather funny—there’s never been a Forsyte, you know, anywhere near Parliament. But he thinks it’ll be good for me; and that it’s all baronets are fit for.”
“One has to have a Seat, unfortunately.”
“Well, I’ve sounded your father, too. He’ll speak to people. They want young men.”
“Ah! And what are my politics?”
“My dear boy, you must know—at thirty.”
“I’m not a Liberal. But am I Labour or Tory?”
“You can think it out before the next election!”
Next day, while he was shaving, and she was in her bath, he cut himself slightly and said: