"Yes, dear; think it over. But better now than when you've begun farming seriously. Italy with you—! It would be nice!"
Jon put his arm round her waist, still slim and firm as a girl's.
"Do you think you ought to leave Father?" he said feebly, feeling very mean.
"Father suggested it; he thinks you ought to see Italy at least before you settle down to anything."
The sense of meanness died in Jon; he knew, yes—he knew—that his father and his mother were not speaking frankly, no more than he himself. They wanted to keep him from Fleur! His heart hardened. And, as if she felt that process going on, his mother said:
"Good-night, darling. Have a good sleep and think it over. But it would be lovely!"
She pressed him to her so quickly that he did not see her face. Jon stood feeling exactly as he used to when he was a naughty little boy; sore because he was not loving, and because he was justified in his own eyes.
But Irene, after she had stood a moment in her own room, passed through the dressing-room between it and her husband's.
"Well?"
"He will think it over, Jolyon."