Jon looked at him, startled. “But that's awful,” he said: “I mean—for Fleur.”
“Don't suppose Fleur cares very much; she's very up-to-date.”
“Her mother!”
“You're very green, Jon.”
Jon grew red. “Mothers,” he stammered angrily, “are different.”
“You're right,” said Val suddenly; “but things aren't what they were when I was your age. There's a 'To-morrow we die' feeling. That's what old George meant about my Uncle Soames. He doesn't mean to die to-morrow.”
Jon said, quickly: “What's the matter between him and my father?”
“Stable secret, Jon. Take my advice, and bottle up. You'll do no good by knowing. Have a liqueur?”
Jon shook his head.
“I hate the way people keep things from one,” he muttered, “and then sneer at one for being green.”