IX
FAT IN THE FIRE
On reaching home Fleur found an atmosphere so peculiar that it penetrated even the perplexed aura of her own private life. Her mother was in blue stockingette and a brown study; her father in a white felt hat and the vinery. Neither of them had a word to throw to a dog. 'Is it because of me?' thought Fleur. 'Or because of Profond?' To her mother she said:
"What's the matter with Father?"
Her mother answered with a shrug of her shoulders.
To her father:
"What's the matter with Mother?"
Her father answered:
"Matter? What should be the matter?" and gave her a sharp look.
"By the way," murmured Fleur, "Monsieur Profond is going a 'small' voyage on his yacht, to the South Seas."