Flattery! The fellow must be leading up to something!

Elderson went on:

“I can say to you what I couldn’t say to any of the others: I’m not at all happy about business, Mr. Forsyte. England is just about to discover the state she’s really in.”

Faced with this startling confirmation of his own thoughts, Soames reacted.

“No good crying out before we’re hurt,” he said; “the pound’s still high. We’re good stayers.”

“In the soup, I’m afraid. If something drastic isn’t done—we SHALL stay there. And anything drastic, as you know, means disorganisation and lean years before you reap reward.”

How could the fellow talk like this, and look as bright and pink as a new penny? It confirmed the theory that he didn’t care what happened. And, suddenly, Soames resolved to try a shot.

“Talking of lean years—I came in to say that I think we must call a meeting of the shareholders over this dead loss of the German business.” He said it to the floor, and looked quickly up. The result was disappointing. The manager’s light-grey eyes met his without a blink.

“I’ve been expecting that from you,” he said.

‘The deuce you have!’ thought Soames, for it had but that moment come into his mind.

“By all means call one,” went on the manager; “but I’m afraid the Board won’t like it.”

Soames refrained from saying: ‘Nor do I.’

“Nor the shareholders, Mr. Forsyte. In a long experience I’ve found that the less you rub their noses in anything unpleasant, the better for every one.”

“That may be,” said Soames, stiffening in contrariety; “but it’s all a part of the vice of not facing things.”

“I don’t think, Mr. Forsyte, that you will accuse ME of not facing things, in the time to come.”

Time to come! Now, what on earth did the fellow mean by that?

“Well, I shall moot it at the next Board,” he said.

“Quite!” said the manager. “Nothing like bringing things to a head, is there?”

Again that indefinable mockery, as if he had something up his sleeve. Soames looked mechanically at the fellow’s cuffs—beautifully laundered, with a blue stripe; at his holland waistcoat, and his bird’s-eye tie—a regular dandy. He would give him a second barrel!

“By the way,” he said, “Mont’s written a book. I’ve taken a copy.”

Not a blink! A little more show of teeth, perhaps—false, no doubt!

“I’ve taken two—poor, dear Mont!”

Soames had a sense of defeat. This chap was armoured like a crab, varnished like a Spanish table.

“Well,” he said, “I must go.”

The manager held out his hand.

“Good-bye, Mr. Forsyte. I’m so grateful to you.”

The fellow was actually squeezing his hand. Soames went out confused. To have his hand squeezed was so rare! It undermined him. And yet, it might be the crown of a consummate bit of acting. He couldn’t tell. He had, however, less intention even than before of moving for a meeting of the shareholders. No, no! That had just been a shot to get a rise; and it had failed. But the Butterfield shot had gone home, surely! If innocent, Elderson must certainly have alluded to the impudence of the young man’s call. And yet such a cool card was capable of failing to rise, just to tease you! No! Nothing doing—as they said nowadays. He was as far as ever from a proof of guilt; and to speak truth, glad of it. Such a scandal could serve no purpose save that of blackening the whole concern, directors and all. People were so careless, they never stopped to think, or apportion blame where it was due. Keep a sharp eye open, and go on as they were! No good stirring hornets’ nests! He had got so far in thought and progress, when a voice said:

“Well met, Forsyte! Are you going my way?”

“Old Mont,” coming down the steps of ‘Snooks’!

“I don’t know,” said Soames.

“I’m off to the Aeroplane for lunch.”

“That new-fangled place?”

“Rising, you know, Forsyte—rising.”

“I’ve just been seeing Elderson. He’s bought two copies of your book.”

“Dear me! Poor fellow!”

Soames smiled faintly. “That’s what he said of you! And who d’you think sold them to him? Young Butterfield.”

“Is he still alive?”

“He was, this morning.”

Sir Lawrence’s face took on a twist:

“I’ve been thinking, Forsyte. They tell me Elderson keeps two women.”

Soames stared. The idea was attractive; would account for everything.

“My wife says it’s one too many, Forsyte. What do you say?”

“I?” said Soames. “I only know the chap’s as cool as a cucumber. I’m going in here. Good-bye!”

One could get no help from that baronet fellow; he couldn’t take anything seriously. Two women! At Elderson’s age! What a life! There were always men like that, not content with one thing at a time—living dangerously. It was mysterious to him. You might look and look into chaps like that, and see nothing. And yet, there they were! He crossed the hall, and went into the room where connoisseurs were lunching. Taking down the menu at the service table, he ordered himself a dozen oysters; but, suddenly remembering that the month contained no “r,” changed them to a fried sole.

“No, dear heart, Nature’s ‘off’!”

“How d’you mean, Michael?”

“Well, look at the Nature novels we get. Sedulous stuff pitched on Cornish cliffs or Yorkshire moors—ever been on a Yorkshire moor?—it comes off on you; and the Dartmoor brand. Gosh! Dartmoor, where the passions come from—ever been on Dartmoor? Well, they don’t, you know. And the South Sea bunch! Oh, la, la! And the poets, the splash-and-splutter school don’t get within miles of Nature. The village idiot school is a bit better, certainly. After all, old Wordsworth made Nature, and she’s a bromide. Of course, there’s raw nature with the small ‘n’; but if you come up against that, it takes you all your time to keep alive—the Nature we gas about is licensed, nicely blended and bottled. She’s not modern enough for contemporary style.”

“Oh! well, let’s go on the river, anyway, Michael. We can have tea at ‘The Shelter.’”

They were just reaching what Michael always called ‘this desirable residence,’ when Fleur leaned forward, and, touching his knee, said:

“I’m not half as nice to you as you deserve, Michael.”

“Good Lord, darling! I thought you were.”

“I know I’m selfish; especially just now.”

“It’s only the eleventh baronet.”

“Yes; it’s a great responsibility. I only hope he’ll be like you.”

Michael slid in to the landing-stage, shipped his sculls, and sat down beside her.

“If he’s like me, I shall disown him. But sons take after their mothers.”

“I meant in character. I want him frightfully to be cheerful and not restless, and have the feeling that life’s worth while.”

Michael stared at her lips—they were quivering; at her cheek, slightly browned by the afternoon’s sunning; and, bending sideways, he put his own against it.

“He’ll be a sunny little cuss, I’m certain.”

Fleur shook her head.

“I don’t want him greedy and self-centred; it’s in my blood, you know. I can see it’s ugly, but I can’t help it. How do you manage not to be?”

Michael ruffled his hair with his free hand.

“The sun isn’t too hot for you, is it, ducky?”

“No. Seriously, Michael—how?”

“But I AM. Look at the way I want you. Nothing will cure me of that.”

A slight pressure of her cheek on his own was heartening, and he said:

“Do you remember coming down the garden one night, and finding me in a boat just here? When you’d gone, I stood on my head, to cool it. I was on my uppers; I didn’t think I’d got an earthly—” He stopped. No! He would not remind her, but that was the night when she said: “Come again when I know I can’t get my wish!” The unknown cousin!

Fleur said quietly:

“I was a pig to you, Michael, but I was awfully unhappy. That’s gone. It’s gone at last; there’s nothing wrong now, except my own nature.”