“They’re a dilatory lot,” murmured Soames, whose political recollections were of the vaguest.
“Fortunately, perhaps,” said the Marquess; “there is so much leisure for repentance.”
“I can show you another picture or two, here, if you care for them,” said Soames.
“Do,” said the Marquess; and Soames led him across the hall, now evacuated by the hats.
“Watteau, Fragonard, Pater, Chardin,” said Soames.
The Marquess was gazing from picture to picture with his head a little on one side.
“Delightful!” he said. “What a pleasant, and what a worthless age that was! After all, the French are the only people that can make vice attractive, except perhaps the Japanese, before they were spoiled. Tell me, Mr. Forsyte, do you know any Englishman who has done it?”
Soames, who had never studied the question and was hampered by not knowing whether he wanted an Englishman to do it, was hesitating when the Marquess added:
“And yet no such domestic people as the French.”
“My wife’s French,” said Soames, looking round his nose.
“Indeed!” said the Marquess: “How pleasant!”
Soames was again about to answer, when the Marquess continued:
“To see them go out on Sundays—the whole family, with their bread and cheese, their sausage and wine! A truly remarkable people!”
“I prefer ourselves,” said Soames, bluntly. “Less ornamental, perhaps, but—” he stopped short of his country’s virtues.
“The first of my family, Mr. Forsyte, was undoubtedly a Frenchman—not even a Norman Frenchman. There’s a tradition that he was engaged to keep William Rufus’s hair red, when it was on the turn. They gave him lands, so he must have been successful. We’ve had a red streak in the family ever since. My granddaughter—” He regarded Soames with a bird-like eye—“But she and your daughter hardly got on, I remember.”
“No,” said Soames, grimly, “they hardly got on.”
“I’m told they’ve made it up.”
“I don’t think so,” said Soames; “but that’s ancient history.”
In the stress of his present uneasiness he could have wished it were modern.
“Well, Mr. Forsyte, I’m delighted to have seen these pictures. Your son-inlaw tells me he’s going to electrify the kitchen here. Believe me, there’s nothing more conducive to a quiet stomach than a cook who never gets heated. Do tell Mrs. Forsyte that!”
“I will,” said Soames; “but the French are conservative.”
“Lamentably so,” replied the Marquess, holding out his hand: “Good-bye to you!”
“Good-bye!” said Soames, and remained at the window, gazing after the old man’s short, quick figure in its grey-green tweeds, with a feeling of having been slightly electrified.
Chapter XII.
DELICIOUS NIGHT
Fleur sat under a groyne at Loring. There were few things with which she had less patience than the sea. It was not in her blood. The sea, with its reputation for never being in the same mood, blue, wet, unceasing, had for her a distressing sameness. And, though she sat with her face to it she turned to it the back of her mind. She had been there a week without seeing Jon again. They knew where she was, yet only Holly had been over; and her quick instinct apprehended the cause—Anne must have become aware of her. And now, as Holly had told her, there was no longer even Goodwood to look forward to. Everywhere she was baulked and with all her heart she resented it! She was indeed in a wretched state of indecision. If she had known precisely the end she wished to attain, she could have possessed her soul; but she knew it not. Even the care of Kit was no longer important. He was robust again, and employed, all day, with spade and bucket.
‘I can’t stand it,’ she thought; ‘I shall go up to town. Michael will be glad of me.’
She went up after an early lunch, reading in the train a book of reminiscences which took away the reputations of various dead persons. Quite in the mode, it distracted her thoughts more than she had hoped from its title; and her spirits rose as the scent of oysters died out of the air. She had letters from her father and Michael in her bag, and got them out to read again.
“DEAR HEART” (ran Michael’s—yes, she supposed she WAS still his dear heart)—
“I hope this finds you and Kit as it leaves me ‘at the present time of speaking.’ But I miss you horribly as usual, and intend to descend on you before long, unless you descend on me first. I don’t know if you saw our appeal in the papers on Monday. People are already beginning to take bonds. The committee weighed in well for a send-off. The walrus put down five thousand of the best, the Marquess sent your father’s Morland cheque for six hundred, and your Dad and Bart each gave two-fifty. The Squire gave five hundred; Bedwin and Sir Timothy a hundred apiece, and the Bishop gave us twenty and his blessing. So we opened with six thousand eight hundred and twenty from the committee alone—none so dusty. I believe the thing will go. The appeal has been re-printed, and is going out to everyone who ever gives to anything; and amongst other propaganda, we’ve got the Polytheum to promise to show a slum film if we can get one made. My Uncle Hilary is very bucked. It was funny to see your Dad—he was a long time making up his mind, and he actually went down to look at the Meads. He came back saying—he didn’t know, it was a tumble-down neighbourhood, he didn’t think it could be done for five hundred a house. I had my uncle to him that evening, and he knocked under to Hilary’s charm. But next morning he was very grumpy—said his name would be in the papers as signing the appeal, and seemed to think it would do him harm. ‘They’ll think I’ve taken leave of my senses,’ was his way of putting it. However, there he is, on the committee, and he’ll get used to it in time. They’re a rum team, and but for the bugs I don’t think they’d hold together. We had another meeting today. Old Blythe’s nose is properly out of joint; he says I’ve gone back on him and Foggartism. I haven’t, of course—but, dash it, one must have something real to do!
“All my love to you and Kit.
“MICHAEL.”
“I’ve got your drawing framed and hung above my bureau, and very jolly it looks. Your Dad was quite struck. M.”
Above his bureau—“The golden apple!” How ironical! Poor Michael—if he knew—!
Her father’s letter was short—she had never had a long one from him.
“MY DEAR CHILD,
“Your mother has gone back to ‘The Shelter,’ but I am staying on at Green Street about this thing of Michael’s. I don’t know, I’m sure, whether there’s anything in it; there’s a lot of gammon talked about the slums; still, for a parson, I find his Uncle Hilary an amiable fellow, and there are some goodish names on the committee. We shall see.
“I had no idea you had kept up your water-colours. The drawing has considerable merit, though the subject is not clear to me. The fruit looks too soft and rich for apples. Still, I suppose you know what you were driving at. I am glad the news of Kit is so good, and that you are feeling the better for the sea air.
“Ever your affectionate father,
“S. F.”
Knew what she was driving at! If only she did! And if only her father didn’t! That was the doubt in her mind when she tore up the letter and scattered it on Surrey through the window. He watched her like a lynx—like a lover; and she did not want to be watched just now.
She had no luggage, and at Victoria took a cab for Chiswick. June would at least know something about those two; whether they were still at Wansdon, or where they were.
How well she remembered the little house from the one visit she had paid to it—in the days when she and Jon—!
June was in the hall, on the point of going out.
“Oh! It’s you!” she said. “You didn’t come that Sunday!”