Her father called her back as she was following her mother out.
She sat down beside him at the table, and, unpinning the pale honeysuckle, put it to her nose.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"Yes, dear?"
"It's extremely painful for me to talk, but there's no help for it. I don't know if you understand how much you are to me—I've never spoken of it, I didn't think it necessary; but—but you're everything. Your mother—" he paused, staring at his finger-bowl of Venetian glass.
"Yes?"
"I've only you to look to. I've never had—never wanted anything else, since you were born."
"I know," Fleur murmured.
Soames moistened his lips.
"You may think this a matter I can smooth over and arrange for you. You're mistaken. I—I'm helpless."