The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Roger's house in Prince's Gardens was brilliantly alight. Large numbers

of wax candles had been collected and placed in cut-glass chandeliers,

and the parquet floor of the long, double drawing-room reflected these

constellations. An appearance of real spaciousness had been secured by

moving out all the furniture on to the upper landings, and enclosing

the room with those strange appendages of civilization known as 'rout'

seats. In a remote corner, embowered in palms, was a cottage piano, with

a copy of the 'Kensington Coil' open on the music-stand.

Roger had objected to a band. He didn't see in the least what they

wanted with a band; he wouldn't go to the expense, and there was an end

of it. Francie (her mother, whom Roger had long since reduced to chronic

dyspepsia, went to bed on such occasions), had been obliged to content

herself with supplementing the piano by a young man who played the

cornet, and she so arranged with palms that anyone who did not look into

the heart of things might imagine there were several musicians secreted

there. She made up her mind to tell them to play loud--there was a lot

of music in a cornet, if the man would only put his soul into it.

In the more cultivated American tongue, she was 'through' at

last--through that tortuous labyrinth of make-shifts, which must be

traversed before fashionable display can be combined with the sound

economy of a Forsyte. Thin but brilliant, in her maize-coloured frock

with much tulle about the shoulders, she went from place to place,

fitting on her gloves, and casting her eye over it all.

To the hired butler (for Roger only kept maids) she spoke about the

wine. Did he quite understand that Mr. Forsyte wished a dozen bottles of

the champagne from Whiteley's to be put out? But if that were finished

(she did not suppose it would be, most of the ladies would drink water,

no doubt), but if it were, there was the champagne cup, and he must do

the best he could with that.

She hated having to say this sort of thing to a butler, it was so infra

dig.; but what could you do with father? Roger, indeed, after making

himself consistently disagreeable about the dance, would come down

presently, with his fresh colour and bumpy forehead, as though he had

been its promoter; and he would smile, and probably take the prettiest

woman in to supper; and at two o'clock, just as they were getting into

the swing, he would go up secretly to the musicians and tell them to

play 'God Save the Queen,' and go away.