“Oh!” Fleur cried: “What a delicious thing!”

“Venus floating on the waves, or something,” murmured Soames. “Uncommon. You want a strong light on it.”

“But it’s lovely. I shall put it on at once.”

Venus! If Dad had known! She put her arms round his neck to disguise her sense of a propos. Soames received the rub of her cheek against his own well-shaved face with his usual stillness. Why demonstrate when they were both aware that his affection was double hers?

“Put it on then,” he said, “and let’s see.”

Fleur pinned it at her neck before an old lacquered mirror.

“It’s a jewel. Thank you, darling! Yes, your tie is straight. I like that white piping. You ought always to wear it with black. Now, come along!” And she drew him into her Chinese room. It was empty.

“Bart must be up with Michael, talking about his new book.”

“Writing at his age?” said Soames.

“Well, ducky, he’s a year younger than you.”

“I don’t write. Not such a fool. Got any more newfangled friends?”

“Just one—Gurdon Minho, the novelist.”

“Another of the new school?”

“Oh, no, dear! Surely you’ve heard of Gurdon Minho; he’s older than the hills.”

“They’re all alike to me,” muttered Soames. “Is he well thought of?”

“I should think his income is larger than yours. He’s almost a classic—only waiting to die.”

“I’ll get one of his books and read it. What name did you say?”

“Get ‘Big and Little Fishes,’ by Gurdon Minho. You can remember that, can’t you? Oh! here they are! Michael, look at what Father’s given me.”

Taking his hand, she put it up to the opal at her neck. ‘Let them both see,’ she thought, ‘what good terms we’re on.’ Though her father had not seen her with Wilfrid in the gallery, her conscience still said: “Strengthen your respectability, you don’t quite know how much support you’ll need for it in future.”