Fleur stood stroking his arm.
“I've tried to forget,” he said suddenly; “I don't wish to be reminded.” And then, as if venting some long and secret irritation, he added: “In these days people don't understand. Grand passion, indeed! No one knows what it is.”
“I do,” said Fleur, almost in a whisper.
Soames, who had turned his back on her, spun round.
“What are you talking of—a child like you!”
“Perhaps I've inherited it, Father.”
“What?”
“For her son, you see.”
He was pale as a sheet, and she knew that she was as bad. They stood staring at each other in the steamy heat, redolent of the mushy scent of earth, of potted geranium, and of vines coming along fast.
“This is crazy,” said Soames at last, between dry lips.