"What is your wish?"
"Ask another."
"Fleur," said Mont, and his voice sounded strange, "don't mock me! Even
vivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before they're cut up for
good."
Fleur shook her head; but her lips were trembling.
"Well, you shouldn't make me jump. Give me a cigarette."
Mont gave her one, lighted it, and another for himself.
"I don't want to talk rot," he said, "but please imagine all the rot
that all the lovers that ever were have talked, and all my special rot
thrown in."
"Thank you, I have imagined it. Good-night!" They stood for a moment
facing each other in the shadow of an acacia-tree with very moonlit
blossoms, and the smoke from their cigarettes mingled in the air between
them.
"Also ran: 'Michael Mont'?" he said. Fleur turned abruptly toward the
house. On the lawn she stopped to look back. Michael Mont was whirling
his arms above him; she could see them dashing at his head; then waving
at the moonlit blossoms of the acacia. His voice just reached her.
"Jolly-jolly!" Fleur shook herself. She couldn't help him, she had
too much trouble of her own! On the verandah she stopped very suddenly
again. Her mother was sitting in the drawing-room at her writing bureau,
quite alone. There was nothing remarkable in the expression of her
face except its utter immobility. But she looked desolate! Fleur went
upstairs. At the door of her room she paused. She could hear her father
walking up and down, up and down the picture-gallery.
'Yes,' she thought, jolly! Oh, Jon!'