The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

At twenty-five minutes past seven she turned out the electric light

in her little hall, and wrapped in her opera cloak with the chinchilla

collar, came out into the corridor, pausing a moment to make sure she

had her latch-key. These little self-contained flats were convenient; to

be sure, she had no light and no air, but she could shut it up whenever

she liked and go away. There was no bother with servants, and she never

felt tied as she used to when poor, dear Fred was always about, in his

mooney way. She retained no rancour against poor, dear Fred, he was

such a fool; but the thought of that actress drew from her, even now, a

little, bitter, derisive smile.

Firmly snapping the door to, she crossed the corridor, with its gloomy,

yellow-ochre walls, and its infinite vista of brown, numbered doors.

The lift was going down; and wrapped to the ears in the high cloak, with

every one of her auburn hairs in its place, she waited motionless for

it to stop at her floor. The iron gates clanked open; she entered. There

were already three occupants, a man in a great white waistcoat, with

a large, smooth face like a baby's, and two old ladies in black, with

mittened hands.

Mrs. MacAnder smiled at them; she knew everybody; and all these three,

who had been admirably silent before, began to talk at once. This was

Mrs. MacAnder's successful secret. She provoked conversation.

Throughout a descent of five stories the conversation continued, the

lift boy standing with his back turned, his cynical face protruding

through the bars.

At the bottom they separated, the man in the white waistcoat

sentimentally to the billiard room, the old ladies to dine and say to

each other: "A dear little woman!" "Such a rattle!" and Mrs. MacAnder to

her cab.

When Mrs. MacAnder dined at Timothy's, the conversation (although

Timothy himself could never be induced to be present) took that wider,

man-of-the-world tone current among Forsytes at large, and this, no

doubt, was what put her at a premium there.

Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester found it an exhilarating change. "If only,"

they said, "Timothy would meet her!" It was felt that she would do him

good. She could tell you, for instance, the latest story of Sir Charles

Fiste's son at Monte Carlo; who was the real heroine of Tynemouth Eddy's

fashionable novel that everyone was holding up their hands over,

and what they were doing in Paris about wearing bloomers. She was so

sensible, too, knowing all about that vexed question, whether to send

young Nicholas' eldest into the navy as his mother wished, or make

him an accountant as his father thought would be safer. She strongly

deprecated the navy. If you were not exceptionally brilliant or

exceptionally well connected, they passed you over so disgracefully,

and what was it after all to look forward to, even if you became an

admiral--a pittance! An accountant had many more chances, but let him be

put with a good firm, where there was no risk at starting!