Never in all the life of the mother of four little Darties had Winifred felt more seriously embarrassed. Her niece's face was so pale, her eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained.
“Your father didn't wish you to hear,” she said, with all the aplomb she could muster. “These things will happen. I've often told him he ought to let you know.”
“Oh!” said Fleur, and that was all, but it made Winifred pat her shoulder—a firm little shoulder, nice and white! She never could help an appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece, who would have to be married, of course—though not to that boy Jon.
“We've forgotten all about it years and years ago,” she said comfortably. “Come and have dinner!”
“No, Auntie. I don't feel very well. May I go upstairs?”
“My dear!” murmured Winifred, concerned, “you're not taking this to heart? Why, you haven't properly come out yet! That boy's a child!”
“What boy? I've only got a headache. But I can't stand that man to-night.”
“Well, well,” said Winifred, “go and lie down. I'll send you some bromide, and I shall talk to Prosper Profond. What business had he to gossip? Though I must say I think it's much better you should know.”
Fleur smiled. “Yes,” she said, and slipped from the room.
She went up with her head whirling, a dry sensation in her throat, a guttered frightened feeling in her breast. Never in her life as yet had she suffered from even momentary fear that she would not get what she had set her heart on. The sensations of the afternoon had been full and poignant, and this gruesome discovery coming on the top of them had really made her head ache. No wonder her father had hidden that photograph, so secretly behind her own-ashamed of having kept it! But could he hate Jon's mother and yet keep her photograph? She pressed her hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. Had they told Jon—had her visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell him? Everything now turned on that! She knew, they all knew, except—perhaps—Jon!