Fleur sped on. She had need of rapid motion; she was late, and wanted
all her wits about her when she got in. She passed the islands, the
station, and hotel, and was about to take the ferry, when she saw a
skiff with a young man standing up in it, and holding to the bushes.
"Miss Forsyte," he said; "let me put you across. I've come on purpose."
She looked at him in blank amazement.
"It's all right, I've been having tea with your people. I thought I'd
save you the last bit. It's on my way, I'm just off back to Pangbourne.
My name's Mont. I saw you at the picture-gallery--you remember--when
your father invited me to see his pictures."
"Oh!" said Fleur; "yes--the handkerchief."
To this young man she owed Jon; and, taking his hand, she stepped down
into the skiff. Still emotional, and a little out of breath, she sat
silent; not so the young man. She had never heard any one say so much in
so short a time. He told her his age, twenty-four; his weight, ten stone
eleven; his place of residence, not far away; described his sensations
under fire, and what it felt like to be gassed; criticized the Juno,
mentioned his own conception of that goddess; commented on the Goya
copy, said Fleur was not too awfully like it; sketched in rapidly the
condition of England; spoke of Monsieur Profond--or whatever his name
was--as "an awful sport"; thought her father had some "ripping" pictures
and some rather "dug-up"; hoped he might row down again and take her
on the river because he was quite trustworthy; inquired her opinion of
Tchekov, gave her his own; wished they could go to the Russian ballet
together some time--considered the name Fleur Forsyte simply topping;
cursed his people for giving him the name of Michael on the top of Mont;
outlined his father, and said that if she wanted a good book she should
read "Job"; his father was rather like Job while Job still had land.
"But Job didn't have land," Fleur murmured; "he only had flocks and
herds and moved on."
"Ah!" answered Michael Mont, "I wish my gov'nor would move on. Not that
I want his land. Land's an awful bore in these days, don't you think?"
"We never have it in my family," said Fleur. "We have everything else.
I believe one of my great-uncles once had a sentimental farm in Dorset,
because we came from there originally, but it cost him more than it made
him happy."
"Did he sell it?"
"No; he kept it."
"Why?"
"Because nobody would buy it."