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Updated: May 8, 2025
He saw her touch things on the table as if they had some virtue in them, then face the window-grey from head to foot like a ghost. The least turn of her head, and she must see him! Her lips moved: "Oh! Jon!" She was speaking to herself; the tone of her voice troubled Jon's heart. He saw in her hand a little photograph. She held it toward the light, looking at it very small.
When, at some jolt, the young man's arm touched hers as if by accident, she only thought: 'If that were Jon's arm! When his cheerful voice, tempered by her proximity, murmured above the sound of the car's progress, she smiled and answered, thinking: 'If that were Jon's voice! and when once he said, "Fleur, you look a perfect angel in that dress!" she answered, "Oh, do you like it?" thinking, 'If only Jon could see it!
I once saw her looking at a letter of yours; it was wonderful to see her face. I think she's the most beautiful woman I ever saw Age doesn't seem to touch her." Jon's face softened; then again became tense. Everybody everybody was against him and Fleur! It all strengthened the appeal of her words: "Make sure of me marry me, Jon!"
When she looked round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the poppies with her gloved finger. June licked a stamp. "Well, here it is. If you're not in love, of course, there's no more to be said. Jon's lucky." Fleur took the note. "Thanks awfully!" 'Cold-blooded little baggage! thought June. Jon, son of her father, to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of Soames!
"Grape colour," came the whisper, "all grapes La Vendimia the vintage." Jon's fingers scarcely touched each side of the waist; he looked up, with adoring eyes. "Oh! Jon," it whispered; bent, kissed his forehead, pirouetted again, and, gliding out, was gone. Jon stayed on his knees, and his head fell forward against the bed. How long he stayed like that he did not know.
They discussed the nature of their homes and previous existences, which had a kind of fascinating unreality up on that lonely height. There remained but one thing solid in Jon's past his mother; but one thing solid in Fleur's her father; and of these figures, as though seen in the distance with disapproving faces, they spoke little.
Only you could persuade her, dear, because only you could promise. One can't promise for other people. Surely it wouldn't be too awkward for you to see her just this once now that Jon's father is dead?" "Too awkward?" Soames repeated. "The whole thing's preposterous." "You know," said Fleur, without looking up, "you wouldn't mind seeing her, really." Soames was silent.
In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance. She dragged her hands away. "I didn't think in these days boys were tied to their mothers' apron-strings." Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck. "Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!" Swiftly she came close to him. "Jon, dear; I didn't mean it." "All right."
And though their kiss only lasted perhaps ten seconds Jon's soul left his body and went so far beyond that, when he was again sitting opposite that demure figure, he was pale as death. He heard her sigh, and the sound seemed to him the most precious he had ever heard an exquisite declaration that he meant something to her.
They had been out five weeks when they turned toward home. Jon's head was restored to its pristine clarity, but he was confined to a hat lined by his mother with many layers of orange and green silk and he still walked from choice in the shade.
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