The girl seemed to June, suddenly, intolerably spiritless.
“I suppose you're right,” she muttered. “I know my father thinks so; but—I should never have done it myself. I can't take things lying down.”
How poised and watchful that girl looked; how unemotional her voice sounded!
“People will assume that I'm in love.”
“Well, aren't you?”
Fleur shrugged her shoulders. 'I might have known it,' thought June; 'she's Soames' daughter—fish! And yet—he!'
“What do you want me to do then?” she said with a sort of disgust.
“Could I see Jon here to-morrow on his way down to Holly's? He'd come if you sent him a line to-night. And perhaps afterward you'd let them know quietly at Robin Hill that it's all over, and that they needn't tell Jon about his mother.”
“All right!” said June abruptly. “I'll write now, and you can post it. Half-past two tomorrow. I shan't be in, myself.”
She sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. When she looked round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the poppies with her gloved finger.