“Draw up. Cream, sir? Sugar, Wilfrid? Ting has had too much—don’t feed him! Hand things, Michael. I’ve heard all about the meeting at ‘Snooks.’ You’re not going to canvass for Labour, Michael—canvassing’s so silly. If any one canvassed me, I should vote the other way at once.”

“Yes, darling; but you’re not the average elector.”

Fleur looked at him. Very sweetly put! Conscious of Wilfrid biting his lips, of Sir Lawrence taking that in, of the amount of silk leg she was showing, of her black and cream teacups, she adjusted these matters. A flutter of her white lids—Desert ceased to bite his lips; a movement of her silk legs—Sir Lawrence ceased to look at him. Holding out her cups, she said:

“I suppose I’m not modern enough?”

Desert, moving a bright little spoon round in his magpie cup, said without looking up:

“As much more modern than the moderns, as you are more ancient.”

“‘Ware poetry!” said Michael.

But when he had taken his father to see the new cartoons by Aubrey Greene, she said:

“Kindly tell me what you meant, Wilfrid.”

Desert’s voice seemed to leap from restraint.

“What does it matter? I don’t want to waste time with that.”

“But I want to know. It sounded like a sneer.”

“A sneer? From me? Fleur!”

“Then tell me.”

“I meant that you have all their restlessness and practical get-thereness; but you have what they haven’t, Fleur—power to turn one’s head. And mine is turned. You know it.”

“How would Michael like that—from YOU, his best man?”

Desert moved quickly to the windows.

Fleur took Ting-a-ling on her lap. Such things had been said to her before; but from Wilfrid it was serious. Nice to think she had his heart, of course! Only, where on earth could she put it, where it wouldn’t be seen except by her? He was incalculable—did strange things! She was a little afraid—not of him, but of that quality in him. He came back to the hearth, and said: