Fleur took the note. "Thanks awfully!"
'Cold-blooded little baggage!' thought June. Jon, son of her father,
to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of--Soames! It was
humiliating!
"Is that all?"
Fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed toward the
door.
"Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!... Little piece of fashion!" muttered June, closing the
door. "That family!" And she marched back toward her studio. Boris
Strumolowski had regained his Christ-like silence and Jimmy Portugal
was damning everybody, except the group in whose behalf he ran the
Neo-Artist. Among the condemned were Eric Cobbley, and several other
"lame-duck" genii who at one time or another had held first place in
the repertoire of June's aid and adoration. She experienced a sense of
futility and disgust, and went to the window to let the river-wind blow
those squeaky words away.
But when at length Jimmy Portugal had finished, and gone with Hannah
Hobdey, she sat down and mothered young Strumolowski for half an hour,
promising him a month, at least, of the American stream; so that he went
away with his halo in perfect order. 'In spite of all,' June thought,
'Boris is wonderful.'