The light outside had chilled, and threw a chalky whiteness on the river. The trees had lost all gaiety of colour. She felt a sudden hunger for Jon's face, for his hands, and the feel of his lips again on hers. And pressing her arms tight across her breast she forced out a little light laugh.
“O la! la! What a small fuss! as Profond would say. Father, I don't like that man.”
She saw him stop, and take something out of his breast pocket.
“You don't?” he said. “Why?”
“Nothing,” murmured Fleur; “just caprice!”
“No,” said Soames; “not caprice!” And he tore what was in his hands across. “You're right. I don't like him either!”
“Look!” said Fleur softly. “There he goes! I hate his shoes; they don't make any noise.”
Down in the failing light Prosper Profond moved, his hands in his side pockets, whistling softly in his beard; he stopped, and glanced up at the sky, as if saying: “I don't think much of that small moon.”
Fleur drew back. “Isn't he a great cat?” she whispered; and the sharp click of the billiard-balls rose, as if Jack Cardigan had capped the cat, the moon, caprice, and tragedy with: “In off the red!”
Monsieur Profond had resumed his stroll, to a teasing little tune in his beard. What was it? Oh! yes, from “Rigoletto”: “Donna a mobile.” Just what he would think! She squeezed her father's arm.