"No, of course; caprice. Only, I like my caprices and I don't like yours, dear."
"Mine!" said Soames bitterly, and turned away.
The light outside had chilled, and threw a chalky whiteness on the river. The trees had lost all gaiety of colour. She felt a sudden hunger for Jon's face, for his hands, and the feel of his lips again on hers. And pressing her arms tight across her breast she forced out a little light laugh.
"O la! la! What a small fuss! as Profond would say. Father, I don't like that man."
She saw him stop, and take something out of his breast pocket.
"You don't?" he said. "Why?"
"Nothing," murmured Fleur; "just caprice!"
"No," said Soames; "not caprice!" And he tore what was in his hands across. "You're right. I don't like him either!"
"Look!" said Fleur softly. "There he goes! I hate his shoes; they don't make any noise."
Down in the failing light Prosper Profond moved, his hands in his side pockets, whistling softly in his beard; he stopped, and glanced up at the sky, as if saying: "I don't think much of that small moon."