Holding out her cups, she said:

‘I suppose I’m not modern enough?’

Desert, moving a bright little spoon round in his magpie cup, said without looking up:

‘As much more modern than the moderns, as you are more ancient.’

‘’Ware poetry!’ said Michael.

But when he had taken his father to see the new cartoons by Aubrey Greene, she said:

‘Kindly tell me what you meant, Wilfrid.’

Desert’s voice seemed to leap from restraint.

‘What does it matter? I don’t want to waste time with that.’

‘But I want to know. It sounded like a sneer.’

‘A sneer? From me? Fleur!’

‘Then tell me.’

‘I meant that you have all their restlessness and practical getthereness; but you have what they haven’t, Fleur – power to turn one’s head. And mine is turned. You know it.’

‘How would Michael like that – from you, his best man?’

Desert moved quickly to the windows.

Fleur took Ting-a-ling on her lap. Such things had been said to her before; but from Wilfrid it was serious. Nice to think she had his heart, of course! Only, where on earth could she put it, where it wouldn’t be seen except by her? He was incalculable – did strange things! She was a little afraid – not of him, but of that quality in him. He came back to the hearth, and said:

‘Ugly, isn’t it? Put that damn’ dog down, Fleur; I can’t see your face. If you were really fond of Michael – I swear I wouldn’t; but you’re not, you know.’

Fleur said coldly:

‘You know very little; I am fond of Michael.’

Desert gave his little jerky laugh.

‘Oh yes; not the sort that counts.’

Fleur looked up.

‘It counts quite enough to make one safe.’

‘A flower that I can’t pick.’

Fleur nodded.

‘Quite sure, Fleur? Quite, quite sure?’

Fleur stared; her eyes softened a little, her eyelids, so excessively white, drooped over them; she nodded. Desert said slowly:

‘The moment I believe that, I shall go East.’

‘East?’

‘Not so stale as going West, but much the same – you don’t come back.’

Fleur thought: ‘The East? I should love to know the East! Pity one can’t manage that, too. Pity!’

‘You won’t keep me in your Zoo, my dear. I shan’t hang around and feed on crumbs. You know what I feel – it means a smash of some sort.’

‘It hasn’t been my fault, has it?’

‘Yes; you’ve collected me, as you collect everybody that comes near you.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Desert bent down, and dragged her hand to his lips.

‘Don’t be riled with me; I’m too unhappy.’

Fleur let her hand stay against his hot lips.

‘Sorry, Wilfrid.’

‘All right, dear. I’ll go.’

‘But you’re coming to dinner tomorrow?’

Desert said violently:

‘Tomorrow? Good God – no! What d’you think I’m made of?’

He flung her hand away.

‘I don’t like violence, Wilfrid.’

‘Well, good-bye; I’d better go.’

The words ‘And you’d better not come again’ trembled up to her lips, but were not spoken. Part from Wilfrid – life would lose a little warmth! She waved her hand. He was gone. She heard the door closing. Poor Wilfrid? – nice to think of a flame at which to warm her hands! Nice but rather dreadful! And suddenly, dropping Ting-a-ling, she got up and began to walk about the room. Tomorrow! Second anniversary of her wedding-day! Still an ache when she thought of what it had not been. But there was little time to think – and she made less. What good in thinking? Only one life, full of people, of things to do and have, of things wanted – a life only void of – one thing, and that – well, if people had it, they never had it long! On her lids two tears, which had gathered, dried without falling. Sentimentalism! No! The last thing in the world – the unforgivable offence! Whom should she put next whom tomorrow? And whom should she get in place of Wilfrid, if Wilfrid wouldn’t come – silly boy! One day – one night – what difference? Who should sit on her right, and who on her left? Was Aubrey Greene more distinguished, or Sibley Swan? Were they either as distinguished as Walter Nazing or Charles Up-shire? Dinner of twelve, exclusively literary and artistic, except for Michael and Alison Charwell. Ah! Could Alison get her Gurdon Minho – just one writer of the old school, one glass of old wine to mellow effervescence? He didn’t publish with Danby and Winter; but he fed out of Alison’s hand. She went quickly to one of the old tea-chests, and opened it. Inside was a telephone.

‘Can I speak to Lady Alison – Mrs Michael Mont… Yes… That you, Alison?… Fleur speaking. Wilfrid has fallen through tomorrow night… Is there any chance of your bringing Gurdon Minho? I don’t know him, of course; but he might be interested. You’ll try?… That’ll be ever so delightful. Isn’t the “Snooks” Club meeting rather exciting? Bart says they’ll eat each other now they’ve split… About Mr Minho. Could you let me know tonight? Thanks – thanks awfully!… Good-bye!’

Failing Minho, whom? Her mind hovered over the names in her address book. At so late a minute it must be someone who didn’t stand on ceremony; but except Alison, none of Michael’s relations would be safe from Sibley Swan or Nesta Gorse, and their subversive shafts; as to the Forsytes – out of the question; they had their own sub-acid humour (some of them), but they were not modern, not really modern. Besides, she saw as little of them as she could – they dated, belonged to the dramatic period, had no sense of life without beginning or end.