ON the very day that Fleur was freed from her nursing she received a visit from the last person in her thoughts. If she had not altogether forgotten the existence of one indelibly associated with her wedding-day, she had never expected to see her again. To hear the words: "Miss June Forsyte, ma'am," and find her in front of the Fragonard, was like experiencing a very slight earthquake.
The silvery little figure had turned at her entrance, extending a hand clad in a fabric glove.
"It's a flimsy school, that," she said, pointing her chin at the Fragonard; "but I like your room. Harold Blade's pictures would look splendid here. Do you know his work?"
Fleur shook her head.
"Oh! I should have thought any-----" The little lady stopped, as if she had seen a brink.
"Won't you sit down?" said Fleur. "Have you still got your gallery off Cork Street?"
"That? Oh, no! It was a hopeless place. I sold it for half what my father gave for it."
"And what became of that Polo-American-- Boris Strumo something--you were so interested in?"
"He! Oh! Gone to pieces utterly. Married, and does purely commercial work. He gets big prices for his things--no good at all. So Jon and his wife-----" Again she stopped, and Fleur tried to see the edge from which she had saved her foot.
"Yes," she said, looking steadily into June's eyes, which were moving from side to side, "Jon seems to have abandoned America for good. I can't see his wife being happy over here."
"Ah!" said June. "Holly told me you went to America. yourself. Did you see Jon over there?"
"Did you like America?"
"It's very stimulating."
"Do they buy pictures? I mean, do you think there'd be a chance for Harold Blade's work there?"
"Without knowing the work-----"