“What we have not got in these accounts,” said Soames, “is the relative proportion of foreign risk to home risk—in the present state of things a vital matter.”

The Chairman spoke.

“There will be no difficulty about that, I imagine, Elderson! But in any case, Mr. Forsyte, we should hardly be justified in penalising the present year for the sake of eventualities which we hope will not arise.”

“I don’t know,” said Soames. “We are here to decide policy according to our common sense, and we must have the fullest opportunity of exercising it. That is my point. We have not enough information.”

That ‘plausible chap’ was speaking again:

“Mr. Forsyte seems to be indicating a lack of confidence in the management.” Taking the bull by the horns—was he?

“Am I to have that information?”

The voice of old Mothergill rose cosy in the silence.

“The Board could be adjourned, perhaps, Mr. Chairman; I could come up myself at a pinch. Possibly we could all attend. The times are very peculiar—we mustn’t take any unnecessary risks. The policy of foreign contracts is undoubtedly somewhat new to us. We have no reason so far to complain of the results. And I am sure we have the utmost confidence in the judgment of our managing director. Still, as Mr. Forsyte has asked for this information, I think perhaps we ought to have it. What do you say, my lord?”

“I can’t come up next week. I agree with the chairman that on these accounts we couldn’t burke this year’s dividend. No good getting the wind up before we must. When do the accounts go out, Elderson?”

“Normally at the end of this week.”

“These are not normal times,” said Soames. “To be quite plain, unless I have that information I must tender my resignation.” He saw very well what was passing in their minds. A newcomer making himself a nuisance—they would take his resignation readily—only it would look awkward just before a general meeting unless they could announce “wife’s ill-health” or something satisfactory, which he would take very good care they didn’t.

The chairman said coldly:

“Well, we will adjourn the Board to this day week; you will be able to get us those figures, Elderson?”

“Certainly.”

Into Soames’ mind flashed the thought: ‘Ought to ask for an independent scrutiny.’ But he looked round. Going too far—perhaps—if he intended to remain on the Board—and he had no wish to resign—after all, it was a big thing, and a thousand a year! No! Mustn’t overdo it!

Walking away, he savoured his triumph doubtfully, by no means sure that he had done any good. His attitude had only closed the ‘all together’ attitude round Elderson. The weakness of his position was that he had nothing to go on, save an uneasiness, which when examined was found to be simply a feeling that he hadn’t enough control himself. And yet, there couldn’t be two managers—you must trust your manager!

A voice behind him tittupped: “Well, Forsyte, you gave us quite a shock with your alternative. First time I remember anything of the sort on that Board.”

“Sleepy hollow,” said Soames.

“Yes, I generally have a nap. It gets very hot in there. Wish I’d stuck to my spinneys. They come high, even as early as this.”

Incurably frivolous, this tittupping baronet!

“By the way, Forsyte, I wanted to say: With all this modern birth control and the rest of it, one gets uneasy. We’re not the royal family; but don’t you feel with me it’s time there was a movement in heirs?”

Soames did, but he was not going to confess to anything so indelicate about his own daughter.

“Plenty of time,” he muttered.

“I don’t like that dog, Forsyte.”

Soames stared.

“Dog!” he said. “What’s that to do with it?”

“I like a baby to come before a dog. Dogs and poets distract young women. My grandmother had five babies before she was twenty-seven. She was a Montjoy; wonderful breeders, you remember them—the seven Montjoy sisters—all pretty. Old Montjoy had forty-seven grandchildren. You don’t get it nowadays, Forsyte.”

“Country’s over-populated,” said Soames grimly.

“By the wrong sort—less of them, more of ourselves. It’s almost a matter for legislation.”

“Talk to your son,” said Soames.

“Ah! but they think us fogeys, you know. If we could only point to a reason for existence. But it’s difficult, Forsyte, it’s difficult.”

“They’ve got everything they want,” said Soames.

“Not enough, my dear Forsyte, not enough; the condition of the world is on the nerves of the young. England’s dished, they say, Europe’s dished. Heaven’s dished, and so is Hell! No future in anything but the air. You can’t breed in the air; at least, I doubt it—the difficulties are considerable.”

Soames sniffed.

“If only the journalists would hold their confounded pens,” he said; for, more and more of late, with the decrescendo of scare in the daily Press, he was regaining the old sound Forsyte feeling of security. “We’ve only to keep clear of Europe,” he added.

“Keep clear and keep the ring! Forsyte, I believe you’ve hit it. Good friendly terms with Scandinavia, Holland, Spain, Italy, Turkey—all the outlying countries that we can get at by sea. And let the others dree their weirds. It’s an idea!” How the chap rattled on!

“I’m no politician,” said Soames.

“Keep the ring! The new formula. It’s what we’ve been coming to unconsciously! And as to trade—to say we can’t do without trading with this country or with that—bunkum, my dear Forsyte. The world’s large—we can.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” said Soames. “I only know we must drop this foreign contract assurance.”

“Why not confine it to the ring countries? Instead of ‘balance of power,’ ‘keep the ring’! Really, it’s an inspiration!”

Thus charged with inspiration, Soames said hastily:

“I leave you here, I’m going to my daughter’s.”

“Ah! I’m going to my son’s. Look at these poor devils!”

Down by the Embankment at Blackfriars a band of unemployed were trailing dismally with money-boxes.

“Revolution in the bud! There’s one thing that’s always forgotten, Forsyte, it’s a great pity.”

“What’s that?” said Soames, with gloom. The fellow would tittup all the way to Fleur’s!

“Wash the working-class, put them in clean, pleasant-coloured jeans, teach ’em to speak like you and me, and there’d be an end of class feeling. It’s all a matter of the senses. Wouldn’t you rather share a bedroom with a clean, neat-clothed plumber’s assistant who spoke and smelled like you than with a profiteer who dropped his aitches and reeked of opoponax? Of course you would.”

“Never tried,” said Soames, “so don’t know.”

“Pragmatist! But believe me, Forsyte—if the working class would concentrate on baths and accent instead of on their political and economic tosh, equality would be here in no time.”

“I don’t want equality,” said Soames, taking his ticket to Westminster.

The ‘tittupping’ voice pursued him entering the tube lift.

“Aesthetic equality, Forsyte, if we had it, would remove the wish for any other. Did you ever catch an impecunious professor wishing he was the King?”

“No,” said Soames, opening his paper.