The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too, and day

and night the scents of flowers and trees came in, the hot scent of

parching grass, and the cool scent of the heavy dews.

To the eye of the observant Dartie his two guests did not appear to

be making much running, standing there close together, without a word.

Bosinney was a hungry-looking creature--not much go about him.

He left them to Winifred, however, and busied himself to order the

dinner.

A Forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a Dartie will

tax the resources of a Crown and Sceptre. Living as he does, from hand

to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat; and he will eat it. His

drink, too, will need to be carefully provided; there is much drink

in this country 'not good enough' for a Dartie; he will have the best.

Paying for things vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint

himself. To stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a Dartie.

The best of everything! No sounder principle on which a man can base

his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable income, and a

partiality for his grandchildren.

With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted this weakness in James

the very first year after little Publius's arrival (an error); he had

profited by his perspicacity. Four little Darties were now a sort of

perpetual insurance.

The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This

delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state of

almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then served in

ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to a recipe known

to a few men of the world.

Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by Dartie.

He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his bold,

admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene's face and figure. As he was

obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of her--she was cool

enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under their veil of creamy lace.

He expected to have caught her out in some little game with Bosinney;

but not a bit of it, she kept up her end remarkably well. As for that

architect chap, he was as glum as a bear with a sore head--Winifred

could barely get a word out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly

took his liquor, and his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked

queer.

It was all very amusing.

For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a

certain poignancy, being no fool. He told two or three stories verging

on the improper, a concession to the company, for his stories were not

used to verging. He proposed Irene's health in a mock speech. Nobody

drank it, and Winifred said: "Don't be such a clown, Monty!"