Victorine was still bending over the brown tin trunk. She straightened herself, and on her face came a cold, tired look.

“Well,” she said, “I see you know.”

Bicket had but two steps to take in that small room. He took them, and put his hands on her shoulders. His face was close, his eyes, so large and strained, searched hers.

“I know you’ve myde a show of yerself for all London to see; what I want to know is—the rest!”

Victorine stared back at him.

“The rest!” she said—it was not a question, just a repetition, in a voice that seemed to mean nothing.

“Ah!” said Bicket hoarsely; “The rest—Well?”

“If you think there’s a ‘rest,’ that’s enough.”

Bicket jerked his hands away.

“Aoh! for the land’s sake, daon’t be mysterious. I’m ‘alf orf me nut!”

“I see that,” said Victorine; “and I see this: You aren’t what I thought you. D’you think I liked doing it?” She raised her dress and took out the notes. “There you are! You can go to Australia without me.”

Bicket cried hoarsely: “And leave you to the blasted pynters?”

“And leave me to meself. Take them!”

But Bicket recoiled against the door, staring at the notes with horror. “Not me!”

“Well, I can’t keep ’em. I earned them to get you out of this.”

There was a long silence, while the notes lay between them on the table, still crisp if a little greasy—the long-desired, the dreamed-of means of release, of happiness together in the sunshine. There they lay; neither would take them! What then?

“Vic,” said Bicket at last, in a hoarse whisper, “swear you never let ’em touch you!”

“Yes, I can swear that.”

And she could smile, too, saying it—that smile of hers! How believe her—living all these months, keeping it from him, telling him a lie about it in the end! He sank into a chair by the table and laid his head on his arms.

Victorine turned and began pulling an old cord round the trunk. He raised his head at the tiny sound. Then she really meant to go away! He saw his life devastated, empty as a cocoanut on Hampstead Heath; and all defence ran melted out of his cockney spirit. Tears rolled from his eyes.

“When you were ill,” he said, “I stole for you. I got the sack for it.”

She spun round. “Tony—you never told me! What did you steal?”

“Books. All your extra feedin’ was books.”

For a long minute she stood looking at him, then stretched out her hands without a word. Bicket seized them.

“I don’t care about anything,” he gasped, “so ‘elp me, so long as you’re fond of me, Vic!”

“And I don’t neither. Oh! let’s get out of this, Tony! this awful little room, this awful country. Let’s get out of it all!”

“Yes,” said Bicket; and put her hands to his eyes.

Soames had left Danby and Winter divided in thought between Elderson and the White Monkey. As Fleur surmised, he had never forgotten Aubrey Greene’s words concerning that bit of salvage from the wreck of George Forsyte. “Eat the fruits of life, scatter the rinds, and get copped doing it.” His application of them tended towards the field of business.

The country was still living on its capital. With the collapse of the carrying trade and European markets, they were importing food they couldn’t afford to pay for. In his opinion they would get copped doing it, and that before long. British credit was all very well, the wonder of the world and that, but you couldn’t live indefinitely on wonder. With shipping idle, concerns making a loss all over the place, and the unemployed in swarms, it was a pretty pair of shoes! Even insurance must suffer before long. Perhaps that chap Elderson had foreseen this already, and was simply feathering his nest in time. If one was to be copped in any case, why bother to be honest? This was cynicism so patent, that all the Forsyte in Soames rejected it; and yet it would keep coming back. In a general bankruptcy, why trouble with thrift, far-sightedness, integrity? Even the Conservatives were refusing to call themselves Conservatives again, as if there were something ridiculous about the word, and they knew there was really nothing left to conserve. “Eat the fruit, scatter the rinds, and get copped doing it.” That young painter had said a clever thing—yes, and his picture was clever, though Dumetrius had done one over the price—as usual! Where would Fleur hang it? In the hall, he shouldn’t be surprised—good light there; and the sort of people they knew wouldn’t jib at the nude. Curious—where all the nudes went to! You never saw a nude—no more than you saw the proverbial dead donkey! Soames had a momentary vision of dying donkeys laden with pictures of the nude, stepping off the edge of the world. Refusing its extravagance, he raised his eyes, just in time to see St. Paul’s, as large as life. That little beggar with his balloons wasn’t there today! Well—he’d nothing for him! At a tangent his thoughts turned towards the object of his pilgrimage—the P. P. R. S. and its half-year’s accounts. At his suggestion, they were writing off that German business wholesale—a dead loss of two hundred and thirty thousand pounds. There would be no interim dividend, and even then they would be carrying forward a debit towards the next half-year. Well! better have a rotten tooth out at once and done with; the shareholders would have six months to get used to the gap before the general meeting. He himself had got used to it already, and so would they in time. Shareholders were seldom nasty unless startled—a long-suffering lot!

In the board room the old clerk was still filling his inkpots from the magnum.

“Manager in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say I’m here, will you?”

The old clerk withdrew. Soames looked at the clock. Twelve! A little shaft of sunlight slanted down the wainscotting and floor. There was nothing else alive in the room save a bluebottle and the tick of the clock; not even a daily paper. Soames watched the bluebottle. He remembered how, as a boy, he had preferred bluebottles and green-bottles to the ordinary fly, because of their bright colour. It was a lesson. The showy things, the brilliant people, were the dangerous. Witness the Kaiser, and that precious Italian poet—what was his name! And this Jack-o’-lantern of their own! He shouldn’t be surprised if Elderson were brilliant in private life. Why didn’t the chap come? Was that encounter with young Butterfield giving him pause? The bluebottle crawled up the pane, buzzed down, crawled up again; the sunlight stole inward along the floor. All was vacuous in the board room, as though embodying the principle of insurance: “Keep things as they are.”

‘Can’t kick my heels here for ever,’ thought Soames, and moved to the window. In that wide street leading to the river, sunshine illumined a few pedestrians and a brewer’s dray, but along the main artery at the end the traffic streamed and rattled. London! A monstrous place! And all insured! ‘What’ll it be like thirty years hence?’ he thought. To think that there would be London, without himself to see it! He felt sorry for the place, sorry for himself. Even old Gradman would be gone. He supposed the insurance societies would look after it, but he didn’t know. And suddenly he became aware of Elderson. The fellow looked quite jaunty, in a suit of dittoes and a carnation.

“Contemplating the future, Mr. Forsyte?”

“No,” said Soames. How had the fellow guessed his thoughts?

“I’m glad you’ve come in. It gives me a chance to say how grateful I am for the interest you take in the concern. It’s rare. A manager has a lonely job.”

Was he mocking? He seemed altogether very spry and uppish. Light-heartedness always made Soames suspicious—there was generally some reason for it.

“If every director were as conscientious as you, one would sleep in one’s bed. I don’t mind telling you that the amount of help I got from the Board before you came on it was—well—negligible.”