"Whose child are you?" he said. "Whose child is he? The present is
linked with the past, the future with both. There's no getting away from
that."
She had never heard philosophy pass those lips before. Impressed even
in her agitation, she leaned her elbows on the table, her chin on her
hands.
"But, Father, consider it practically. We want each other. There's ever
so much money, and nothing whatever in the way but sentiment. Let's bury
the past, Father."
His answer was a sigh.
"Besides," said Fleur gently, "you can't prevent us."
"I don't suppose," said Soames, "that if left to myself I should try to
prevent you; I must put up with things, I know, to keep your affection.
But it's not I who control this matter. That's what I want you to
realise before it's too late. If you go on thinking you can get your way
and encourage this feeling, the blow will be much heavier when you find
you can't."
"Oh!" cried Fleur, "help me, Father; you can help me, you know."
Soames made a startled movement of negation. "I?" he said bitterly.
"Help? I am the impediment--the just cause and impediment--isn't that
the jargon? You have my blood in your veins."
He rose.
"Well, the fat's in the fire. If you persist in your wilfulness you'll
have yourself to blame. Come! Don't be foolish, my child--my only
child!"
Fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder.
All was in such turmoil within her. But no good to show it! No good
at all! She broke away from him, and went out into the twilight,
distraught, but unconvinced. All was indeterminate and vague within her,
like the shapes and shadows in the garden, except--her will to have. A
poplar pierced up into the dark-blue sky and touched a white star there.
The dew wetted her shoes, and chilled her bare shoulders. She went down
to the river bank, and stood gazing at a moonstreak on the darkening
water. Suddenly she smelled tobacco smoke, and a white figure emerged as
if created by the moon. It was young Mont in flannels, standing in
his boat. She heard the tiny hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the
water.
"Fleur," came his voice, "don't be hard on a poor devil! I've been
waiting hours."
"For what?"
"Come in my boat!"
"Not I."
"Why not?"
"I'm not a water-nymph."
"Haven't you any romance in you? Don't be modern, Fleur!"
He appeared on the path within a yard of her.
"Go away!"
"Fleur, I love you. Fleur!"
Fleur uttered a short laugh.
"Come again," she said, "when I haven't got my wish."