Fleur did not speak.
"Quite apart from my own feelings," went on Soames with more resolution, "those two are not amenable to anything I can say. They—they hate me, as people always hate those whom they have injured."
"But he—Jon—"
"He's their flesh and blood, her only child. Probably he means to her what you mean to me. It's a deadlock."
"No," cried Fleur, "no, Father!"
Soames leaned back, the image of pale patience, as if resolved on the betrayal of no emotion.
"Listen!" he said. "You're putting the feelings of two months—two months—against the feelings of thirty-five years! What chance do you think you have? Two months—your very first love-affair, a matter of half a dozen meetings, a few walks and talks, a few kisses—against, against what you can't imagine, what no one could who hasn't been through it. Come, be reasonable, Fleur! It's midsummer madness!"
Fleur tore the honeysuckle into little, slow bits. "The madness is in letting the past spoil it all. What do we care about the past? It's our lives, not yours."
Soames raised his hand to his forehead, where suddenly she saw moisture shining.
"Whose child are you?" he said. "Whose child is he? The present is linked with the past, the future with both. There's no getting away from that."