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“I know I’m selfish; especially just now.”
in London, Annette at a garden party. “We’ll have tea on the verandah,
please,” said Fleur. Sitting there, happier than he ever remembered be-
ing, Michael conceded a certain value to Nature, to the sunshine stealing
down, the scent of pinks and roses, the sighing in the aspens. Annette’s
pet doves were cooing; and, beyond the quietly-flowing river, the spires
of poplar trees rose along the further bank. But, after all, he was only
enjoying them because of the girl beside him, whom he loved to touch
and look at, and because, for the first time, he felt as if she did not want
to get up and flutter off to some one or something else. Curious that
there could be, outside oneself, a being who completely robbed the
world of its importance, ‘snooped,’ as it were, the whole ‘bag of
tricks’—and she one’s own wife! Very curious, considering what one
was! He heard her say:
“Of course, mother’s a Catholic; only, living with father down
here, she left off practising. She didn’t even bother me much. I’ve been
thinking, Michael—what shall we do about HIM?”
“Let him rip.”
“I don’t know. He must be taught something, because of going to
school. The Catholics, you know, really do get things out of their reli-
gion.”
“Yes; they go it blind; it’s the only logical way now.”
“I think having no religion makes one feel that nothing matters.”
Michael suppressed the words: ‘We could bring him up as a sun-
worshipper,’ and said, instead:
“It seems to me that whatever he’s taught will only last till he can
think for himself; then he’ll settle down to what suits him.”
“But what do YOU think about things, Michael? You’re as good
as any one I know.”
“Gosh!” murmured Michael, strangely flattered: “Is that so?”
“What DO you think? Be serious!”
“Well, darling, doctrinally nothing—which means, of course, that
I haven’t got religion. I believe one has to play the game—but that’s
ethics.”
“But surely it’s a handicap not to be able to rely on anything but
oneself? If there’s something to be had out of any form of belief, one
might as well have it.”
Michael smiled, but not on the surface.
“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.”
Conscious that his feelings betrayed the period, Michael said:
“Oh! if that’s all! What price tea?”
They went up the lawn arm-inarm. Nobody was at home—Soames
— 201 —
202
in London, Annette at a garden party. “We’ll have tea on the verandah,
please,” said Fleur. Sitting there, happier than he ever remembered being, Michael conceded a certain value to Nature, to the sunshine stealing
down, the scent of pinks and roses, the sighing in the aspens. Annette’s
pet doves were cooing; and, beyond the quietly-flowing river, the spires
of poplar trees rose along the further bank. But, after all, he was only
enjoying them because of the girl beside him, whom he loved to touch
and look at, and because, for the first time, he felt as if she did not want
to get up and flutter off to some one or something else. Curious that
there could be, outside oneself, a being who completely robbed the
world of its importance, ‘snooped,’ as it were, the whole ‘bag of
tricks’—and she one’s own wife! Very curious, considering what one
was! He heard her say:
“Of course, mother’s a Catholic; only, living with father down
here, she left off practising. She didn’t even bother me much. I’ve been
thinking, Michael—what shall we do about HIM?”
“Let him rip.”
“I don’t know. He must be taught something, because of going to
school. The Catholics, you know, really do get things out of their religion.”
“Yes; they go it blind; it’s the only logical way now.”
“I think having no religion makes one feel that nothing matters.”
Michael suppressed the words: ‘We could bring him up as a sunworshipper,’ and said, instead:
“It seems to me that whatever he’s taught will only last till he can
think for himself; then he’ll settle down to what suits him.”
“But what do YOU think about things, Michael? You’re as good
as any one I know.”
“Gosh!” murmured Michael, strangely flattered: “Is that so?”
“What DO you think? Be serious!”
“Well, darling, doctrinally nothing—which means, of course, that
I haven’t got religion. I believe one has to play the game—but that’s
ethics.”
“But surely it’s a handicap not to be able to rely on anything but
oneself? If there’s something to be had out of any form of belief, one
might as well have it.”
Michael smiled, but not on the surface.
— 202 —
203
“You’re going to do just as you like about the eleventh baronet,
Soames passed his hand over his face, evidently wiping off its ex-
pression. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “This dog’s been keeping me
company.”
Michael admired him at that moment. He was obviously swallow-
ing his ‘grief,’ to save Fleur.
“Fleur’s a bit tired,” he said. “We’ve been on the river, and had
tea at ‘The Shelter’; Madame wasn’t in. Let’s have dinner at once,
Fleur.”
Fleur had picked up Ting-a-ling, and was holding her face out of
reach of his avid tongue.
“Sorry you’ve had to wait, Dad,” she murmured, behind the yel-
low fur; “I’m just going to wash; shan’t change.”
When she had gone, Soames reached for the letter.
“A pretty kettle of fish!” he muttered. “Where it’ll end, I can’t
tell!”
“But isn’t this the end, sir?”
Soames stared. These young people! Here he was, faced with a
public scandal, which might lead to he didn’t know what—the loss of
his name in the city, the loss of his fortune, perhaps; and they took it as
if—! They had no sense of responsibility—none! All his father’s power
of seeing the worst, all James’ nervous pessimism, had come to the fore
in him during the hour since, at the Connoisseur’s Club, he had been
handed that letter. Only the extra ‘form’ of the generation that succeed-
ed James saved him, now that Fleur was out of the room, from making
an exhibition of his fears.
“Your father in town?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Good!” Not that he felt relief. That baronet chap was just as irre-
sponsible—getting him to go on that Board! It all came of mixing with
people brought up in a sort of incurable levity, with no real feeling for
money.
“Now that Elderson’s levanted,” he said, “the whole thing must
come out. Here’s his confession in my hand—”
“Why not tear it up, sir, and say Elderson has developed consump-
tion?”
The impossibility of getting anything serious from this young man
afflicted Soames like the eating of heavy pudding.
and I’m going to abet you. But considering his breeding—I fancy he’ll
be a bit of a sceptic.”
“But I don’t WANT him to be. I’d rather he were snug, and con-
vinced and all that. Scepticism only makes one restless.”
“No white monkey in him? Ah! I wonder! It’s in the air, I guess.
The only thing will be to teach him a sense of other people, as young as
possible, with a slipper, if necessary.”
Fleur gave him a clear look, and laughed.
“Yes,” she said: “Mother used to try, but father wouldn’t let her.”
They did not reach home till past eight o’clock.
“Either your father’s here, or mine,” said Michael, in the hall;
“there’s a prehistoric hat.”
“It’s Dad’s. His is grey inside. Bart’s is buff.”
In the Chinese room Soames indeed was discovered, with an
opened letter, and Ting-a-ling at his feet. He held the letter out to Michael, without a word.
There was no date, and no address; Michael read:
“DEAR MR. FORSYTE. – Perhaps you will be good
enough to tell the Board at the meeting on Tuesday that I
am on my way to immunity from the consequences of any
peccadillo I may have been guilty of. By the time you receive this, I shall be there. I have always held that the secret of life, no less than that of business, is to know when
not to stop. It will be no use to proceed against me, for my
person will not be attachable, as I believe you call it in the
law, and I have left no property behind. If your object was
to corner me, I cannot congratulate you on your tactics. If,
on the other hand, you inspired that young man’s visit as a
warning that you were still pursuing the matter, I should
like to add new thanks to those which I expressed when I
saw you a few days ago.
“Believe me, dear Mr. Forsyte,
“Faithfully yours,
“ROBERT ELDERSON.”
Michael said cheerfully:
“Happy release! Now you’ll feel safer, sir.”
— 203 —
204
Soames passed his hand over his face, evidently wiping off its expression. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “This dog’s been keeping me
company.”
Michael admired him at that moment. He was obviously swallowing his ‘grief,’ to save Fleur.
“Fleur’s a bit tired,” he said. “We’ve been on the river, and had
tea at ‘The Shelter’; Madame wasn’t in. Let’s have dinner at once,
Fleur.”
Fleur had picked up Ting-a-ling, and was holding her face out of
reach of his avid tongue.
“Sorry you’ve had to wait, Dad,” she murmured, behind the yellow fur; “I’m just going to wash; shan’t change.”
When she had gone, Soames reached for the letter.
“A pretty kettle of fish!” he muttered. “Where it’ll end, I can’t
tell!”
“But isn’t this the end, sir?”
Soames stared. These young people! Here he was, faced with a
public scandal, which might lead to he didn’t know what—the loss of
his name in the city, the loss of his fortune, perhaps; and they took it as
if—! They had no sense of responsibility—none! All his father’s power
of seeing the worst, all James’ nervous pessimism, had come to the fore
in him during the hour since, at the Connoisseur’s Club, he had been
handed that letter. Only the extra ‘form’ of the generation that succeeded James saved him, now that Fleur was out of the room, from making
an exhibition of his fears.
“Your father in town?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Good!” Not that he felt relief. That baronet chap was just as irresponsible—getting him to go on that Board! It all came of mixing with
people brought up in a sort of incurable levity, with no real feeling for
money.
“Now that Elderson’s levanted,” he said, “the whole thing must
come out. Here’s his confession in my hand—”
“Why not tear it up, sir, and say Elderson has developed consumption?”
The impossibility of getting anything serious from this young man
afflicted Soames like the eating of heavy pudding.
— 204 —
205
“You think that would be honourable?” he said grimly.
Soames stared. Was this young fellow reading him a lesson
against pessimism?
“Look at young Butterfield, the other day,” Michael went on, “go-
ing over the top, to Elderson! Look at the girl who sat for ‘the altogeth-
er’ in that picture you bought us! She’s the wife of a packer we had,
who got hoofed for snooping books. She made quite a lot of money by
standing for the nude, and never lost her wicket. They’re going to Aus-
tralia on it. Yes, and look at that little snooper himself; he snooped to
keep her alive after pneumonia, and came down to selling balloons.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Soames.
“Only grit, sir. You said you didn’t know what we were coming
to. Well, look at the unemployed! Is there a country in the world where
they stick it as they do here? I get awfully bucked at being English eve-
ry now and then. Don’t you?”
The words stirred something deep in Soames; but, far from giving
it away, he continued to gaze at the white monkey. The restless, inhu-
man, and yet so human, angry sadness of the creature’s eyes! ‘No
whites to them!’ thought Soames: ‘that’s what does it, I expect!’ And
George had liked that picture to hang opposite his bed! Well, George
had grit—joked with his last breath: very English, George! Very Eng-
lish, all the Forsytes! Old Uncle Jolyon, and his way with shareholders;
Swithin, upright, puffy, huge in a too little arm-chair at Timothy’s: ‘All
these small fry!’ he seemed to hear the words again; and Uncle Nicho-
las, whom that chap Elderson reproduced as it were unworthily, spry
and all-there, and pretty sensual, but quite above suspicion of dishones-
ty. And old Roger, with his crankiness, and German mutton! And his
own father, James—how he had hung on, long and frail as a reed, hung
on and on! And Timothy, preserved in Consols, dying at a hundred! Grit
and body in those old English boys, in spite of their funny ways. And
there stirred in Soames a sort of atavistic will-power. He would see, and
they would see—and that was all about it!
The grinding of a taxi’s wheels brought him back from reverie.
Here came ‘Old Mont,’ tittuppy, and light in the head as ever, no doubt.
And, instead of his hand, Soames held out Elderson’s letter.
“Your precious schoolfellow’s levanted,” he said.
Sir Lawrence read it through, and whistled.
“What do you think, Forsyte—Constantinople?”
“Sorry, sir!” said Michael, sobered. “Can I help at all?”
“Yes; by dropping your levity, and taking care to keep wind of
this matter away from Fleur.”
“I will,” said Michael, earnestly: “I promise you. I’ll Dutch-oyster
the whole thing. What’s your line going to be?”
“We shall have to call the shareholders together and explain this
dicky-dealing. They’ll very likely take it in bad part.”
“I can’t see why they should. How could you have helped it?”
Soames sniffed.
“There’s no connection in life between reward and your deserts. If
the war hasn’t taught you that, nothing will.”
“Well,” said Michael, “Fleur will be down directly. If you’ll ex-
cuse me a minute; we’ll continue it in our next.”
Their next did not occur till Fleur had gone to bed.
“Now, sir,” said Michael, “I expect my governor’s at the Aeroplane. He goes there and meditates on the end of the world. Would you
like me to ring him up, if your Board meeting’s tomorrow?”
Soames nodded. He himself would not sleep a wink—why should
‘Old Mont’?
Michael went to the Chinese tea chest.
“Bart? This is Michael. Old For—my father-inlaw is here; he’s
had a pill… No; Elderson. Could you blow in by any chance and
hear?… He’s coming, sir. Shall we stay down, or go up to my study?”
“Down,” muttered Soames, whose eyes were fixed on the white
monkey. “I don’t know what we’re all coming to,” he added, suddenly.
“If we did, sir, we should die of boredom.”
“Speak for yourself. All this unreliability! I can’t tell where it’s
leading.”
“Perhaps there’s somewhere, sir, that’s neither heaven nor hell.”
“A man of HIS age!”
“Same age as my dad; it was a bad vintage, I expect. If you’d been
in the war, sir, it would have cheered you up no end.”
“Indeed!” said Soames.
“It took the linch-pins out of the cart—admitted; but, my Lord! it
did give you an idea of the grit there is about, when it comes to being up
against it.”
— 205 —
206
Soames stared. Was this young fellow reading him a lesson
against pessimism?
“Look at young Butterfield, the other day,” Michael went on, “going over the top, to Elderson! Look at the girl who sat for ‘the altogether’ in that picture you bought us! She’s the wife of a packer we had,
who got hoofed for snooping books. She made quite a lot of money by
standing for the nude, and never lost her wicket. They’re going to Australia on it. Yes, and look at that little snooper himself; he snooped to
keep her alive after pneumonia, and came down to selling balloons.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Soames.
“Only grit, sir. You said you didn’t know what we were coming
to. Well, look at the unemployed! Is there a country in the world where
they stick it as they do here? I get awfully bucked at being English every now and then. Don’t you?”
The words stirred something deep in Soames; but, far from giving
it away, he continued to gaze at the white monkey. The restless, inhuman, and yet so human, angry sadness of the creature’s eyes! ‘No
whites to them!’ thought Soames: ‘that’s what does it, I expect!’ And
George had liked that picture to hang opposite his bed! Well, George
had grit—joked with his last breath: very English, George! Very English, all the Forsytes! Old Uncle Jolyon, and his way with shareholders;
Swithin, upright, puffy, huge in a too little arm-chair at Timothy’s: ‘All
these small fry!’ he seemed to hear the words again; and Uncle Nicholas, whom that chap Elderson reproduced as it were unworthily, spry
and all-there, and pretty sensual, but quite above suspicion of dishonesty. And old Roger, with his crankiness, and German mutton! And his
own father, James—how he had hung on, long and frail as a reed, hung
on and on! And Timothy, preserved in Consols, dying at a hundred! Grit
and body in those old English boys, in spite of their funny ways. And
there stirred in Soames a sort of atavistic will-power. He would see, and
they would see—and that was all about it!
The grinding of a taxi’s wheels brought him back from reverie.
Here came ‘Old Mont,’ tittuppy, and light in the head as ever, no doubt.
And, instead of his hand, Soames held out Elderson’s letter.
“Your precious schoolfellow’s levanted,” he said.
Sir Lawrence read it through, and whistled.
“What do you think, Forsyte—Constantinople?”
— 206 —
207
“More likely Monte Carlo,” said Soames gloomily. “Secret com-
There might be some means of restitution they could avail themselves
of. We can’t judge. It may be they’ve a remedy against ourselves.”
“If that’s so, Forsyte, I’m with you.”
Soames felt disgust. Mont had no business to put it with a sort of
gallantry that didn’t count the cost; when the cost, if cost there were,
would fall, not on Mont, whose land was heavily mortgaged, but on
himself, whose property was singularly realisable.
“Well,” he said, coldly, “remember that tomorrow. I’m going to
bed.”
At his open window upstairs he felt no sense of virtue, but he en-
joyed a sort of peace. He had taken his line, and there it was!
Chapter IX.
SOAMES DOESN’T GIVE A DAMN
During the month following the receipt of Elderson’s letter,
Soames aged more than thirty days. He had forced his policy of disclo-
sure on a doubting Board, the special meeting had been called, and, just
as, twenty-three years ago, pursuing divorce from Irene, he had to face
the public eye, so now he suffered day and night in dread of that undis-
criminating optic. The French had a proverb: “Les absents ont toujours
tort!” but Soames had grave doubts about it. Elderson would be absent
from that meeting of the shareholders, but—unless he was much mis-
taken—he himself, who would be present, would come in for the blame.
The French were not to be relied on. What with his anxiety about Fleur,
and his misgiving about the public eye, he was sleeping badly, eating
little, and feeling below par. Annette had recommended him to see a
doctor. That was probably why he did not. Soames had faith in doctors
for other people; but they had never—he would say—done anything for
HIM, possibly because, so far, there had not been anything to do.
Failing in her suggestion, and finding him every day less sociable,
Annette had given him a book on Coue. After running it through, he had
meant to leave it in the train, but the theory, however extravagant, had
somehow clung to him. After all, Fleur was doing it; and the thing cost
you nothing: there might be something in it! There was. After telling
himself that night twenty-five times that he was getting better and bet-
ter, he slept so soundly that Annette, in the next room, hardly slept at
all.
mission—it’s not an extraditable offence.”
The odd contortions of that baronet’s face were giving him some
pleasure—the fellow seemed to be feeling it, after all.
“I should think he’s really gone to escape his women, Forsyte.”
The chap was incorrigible! Soames shrugged his shoulders almost
violently.
“You’d better realise,” he said, “that the fat is in the fire.”
“But surely, my dear Forsyte, it’s been there ever since the French
occupied the Ruhr. Elderson has cut his lucky; we appoint some one
else. What more is there to it?”
Soames had the peculiar feeling of having overdone his own honesty. If an honourable man, a ninth baronet, couldn’t see the implications of Elderson’s confession, were they really there? Was any fuss and
scandal necessary? Goodness knew, HE didn’t want it! He said heavily:
“We now have conclusive evidence of a fraud; we KNOW Elderson was illegally paid for putting through business by which the shareholders have suffered a dead loss. How can we keep this knowledge
from them?”
“But the mischief’s done, Forsyte. How will the knowledge help
them?”
Soames frowned.
“We’re in a fiduciary position. I’m not prepared to run the risks of
concealment. If we conceal, we’re accessory after the fact. The thing
might come out at any time.” If that was caution, not honesty, he
couldn’t help it.
“I should be glad to spare Elderson’s name. We were at—”
“I’m aware of that,” said Soames, drily.
“But what risk is there of its coming out, Forsyte? Elderson won’t
mention it; nor young Butterfield, if you tell him not to. Those who paid
the commission certainly won’t. And beyond us three here, no one else
knows. It’s not as if we profited in any way.”
Soames was silent. The argument was specious. Entirely unjust, of
course, that he should be penalised for what Elderson had done!
“No,” he said, suddenly, “it won’t do. Depart from the law, and
you can’t tell where it’ll end. The shareholders have suffered this loss,
and they have the right to all the facts within the directors’ knowledge.
— 207 —
208
There might be some means of restitution they could avail themselves
of. We can’t judge. It may be they’ve a remedy against ourselves.”
“If that’s so, Forsyte, I’m with you.”
Soames felt disgust. Mont had no business to put it with a sort of
gallantry that didn’t count the cost; when the cost, if cost there were,
would fall, not on Mont, whose land was heavily mortgaged, but on
himself, whose property was singularly realisable.
“Well,” he said, coldly, “remember that tomorrow. I’m going to
bed.”
At his open window upstairs he felt no sense of virtue, but he enjoyed a sort of peace. He had taken his line, and there it was!
Chapter IX.
SOAMES DOESN’T GIVE A DAMN
During the month following the receipt of Elderson’s letter,
Soames aged more than thirty days. He had forced his policy of disclosure on a doubting Board, the special meeting had been called, and, just
as, twenty-three years ago, pursuing divorce from Irene, he had to face
the public eye, so now he suffered day and night in dread of that undiscriminating optic. The French had a proverb: “Les absents ont toujours
tort!” but Soames had grave doubts about it. Elderson would be absent
from that meeting of the shareholders, but—unless he was much mistaken—he himself, who would be present, would come in for the blame.
The French were not to be relied on. What with his anxiety about Fleur,
and his misgiving about the public eye, he was sleeping badly, eating
little, and feeling below par. Annette had recommended him to see a
doctor. That was probably why he did not. Soames had faith in doctors
for other people; but they had never—he would say—done anything for
HIM, possibly because, so far, there had not been anything to do.
Failing in her suggestion, and finding him every day less sociable,
Annette had given him a book on Coue. After running it through, he had
meant to leave it in the train, but the theory, however extravagant, had
somehow clung to him. After all, Fleur was doing it; and the thing cost
you nothing: there might be something in it! There was. After telling
himself that night twenty-five times that he was getting better and better, he slept so soundly that Annette, in the next room, hardly slept at
all.
— 208 —
209
“Do you know, my friend,” she said at breakfast, “you were snor-
Soames to give the evidence within his knowledge. Lord Fontenoy was
emphatic.
“It’s up to you, Mr. Forsyte. If it hadn’t been for you, Elderson
would be sitting there today. From beginning to end you put the wind up
him; and I wish the deuce you hadn’t. The whole thing’s a confounded
nuisance. He was a very clever fellow, and we shall miss him. Our new
man isn’t a patch on him. If he did take a few thou. under the rose, he
took ’em off the Huns.”
Old guinea-pig! Soames replied, acidly:
“And the quarter of a million he’s lost the shareholders, for the
sake of those few thou.? Bagatelle, I suppose?”
“Well, it might have turned out a winner; for the first year it did.
We all back losers sometimes.”
Soames looked from face to face. They did not support this blatant
attitude, but in them all, except perhaps ‘Old Mont’s,’ he felt a grudge
against himself. Their expressions seemed to say: ‘Nothing of this sort
ever happened till you came on the Board.’ He had disturbed their com-
fort, and they disliked him for it. They were an unjust lot! He said dog-
gedly:
“You leave it to me, do you? Very well!”
What he meant to convey—or whether he meant to convey any-
thing, he did not know; but even that ‘old guinea-pig’ was more civil
afterwards. He came away from the Board, however, without any sense
of power at all. There he would be on Tuesday next, bang in the public
eye.
After calling to enquire after Fleur, who was lying down rather
poorly, he returned home with a feeling of having been betrayed. It
seemed that he could not rely, after all, on this fellow with his twenty-
five knots. However much better he might become, his daughter, his
reputation, and possibly his fortune, were not apparently at the disposi-
tion of his subconscious self. He was silent at dinner, and went up af-
terwards to his picture gallery, to think things over. For half an hour he
stood at the open window, alone with the summer evening; and the
longer he stood there, the more clearly he perceived that the three were
really one. Except for his daughter’s sake, what did he care for his repu-
tation or his fortune? His reputation! Lot of fools—if they couldn’t see
that he was careful and honest so far as had lain within his reach—so
ing last night so that I could not hear the cock crow.”
“Why should you want to?” said Soames.
“Well, never mind—if you had a good night. Was it my little
Coue who gave you that nice dream?”
Partly from fear of encouraging Coue, and partly from fear of encouraging her, Soames avoided a reply; but he had a curious sense of
power, as if he did not care what people said of him.
‘I’ll do it again to-night,’ he thought.
“You know,” Annette went on, “you are just the temperament for
Coue, Soames. When you cure yourself of worrying, you will get quite
fat.”
“Fat!” said Soames, looking at her curves. “I’d as soon grow a
beard.”
Fatness and beards were associated with the French. He would
have to keep an eye on himself if he went on with this—er—what was
one to call it? Tomfoolery was hardly the word to conciliate the process,
even if it did require you to tie twenty-five knots in a bit of string: very
French, that, like telling your beads! He himself had merely counted on
his fingers. The sense of power lasted all the way up to London; he had
the conviction that he could sit in a draught if he wanted to, that Fleur
would have her boy all right; and as to the P. P. R. S. – ten to one he
wouldn’t be mentioned by name in any report of the proceedings.
After an early lunch and twenty-five more assurances over his coffee, he set out for the city.
This Board, held just a week before the special meeting of the
shareholders, was in the nature of a dress rehearsal. The details of confrontation had to be arranged, and Soames was chiefly concerned with
seeing that a certain impersonality should be preserved. He was entirely
against disclosure of the fact that young Butterfield’s story and Elderson’s letter had been confided to himself. The phrase to be used should
be a “member of the Board.” He saw no need for anything further. As
for explanations, they would fall, of course, to the chairman and the senior director, Lord Fontenoy. He found, however, that the Board thought
he himself was the right person to bring the matter forward. No one
else—they said—could supply the personal touch, the necessary conviction; the chairman should introduce the matter briefly, then call on
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210
Soames to give the evidence within his knowledge. Lord Fontenoy was
emphatic.
“It’s up to you, Mr. Forsyte. If it hadn’t been for you, Elderson
would be sitting there today. From beginning to end you put the wind up
him; and I wish the deuce you hadn’t. The whole thing’s a confounded
nuisance. He was a very clever fellow, and we shall miss him. Our new
man isn’t a patch on him. If he did take a few thou. under the rose, he
took ’em off the Huns.”
Old guinea-pig! Soames replied, acidly:
“And the quarter of a million he’s lost the shareholders, for the
sake of those few thou.? Bagatelle, I suppose?”
“Well, it might have turned out a winner; for the first year it did.
We all back losers sometimes.”
Soames looked from face to face. They did not support this blatant
attitude, but in them all, except perhaps ‘Old Mont’s,’ he felt a grudge
against himself. Their expressions seemed to say: ‘Nothing of this sort
ever happened till you came on the Board.’ He had disturbed their comfort, and they disliked him for it. They were an unjust lot! He said doggedly:
“You leave it to me, do you? Very well!”
What he meant to convey—or whether he meant to convey anything, he did not know; but even that ‘old guinea-pig’ was more civil
afterwards. He came away from the Board, however, without any sense
of power at all. There he would be on Tuesday next, bang in the public
eye.
After calling to enquire after Fleur, who was lying down rather
poorly, he returned home with a feeling of having been betrayed. It
seemed that he could not rely, after all, on this fellow with his twentyfive knots. However much better he might become, his daughter, his
reputation, and possibly his fortune, were not apparently at the disposition of his subconscious self. He was silent at dinner, and went up afterwards to his picture gallery, to think things over. For half an hour he
stood at the open window, alone with the summer evening; and the
longer he stood there, the more clearly he perceived that the three were
really one. Except for his daughter’s sake, what did he care for his reputation or his fortune? His reputation! Lot of fools—if they couldn’t see
that he was careful and honest so far as had lain within his reach—so
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