The Forsyte Saga - Volume 2

Jolly Forsyte was strolling down High Street, Oxford, on a November

afternoon; Val Dartie was strolling up. Jolly had just changed out of

boating flannels and was on his way to the 'Frying-pan,' to which he had

recently been elected. Val had just changed out of riding clothes and

was on his way to the fire--a bookmaker's in Cornmarket.

"Hallo!" said Jolly.

"Hallo!" replied Val.

The cousins had met but twice, Jolly, the second-year man, having

invited the freshman to breakfast; and last evening they had seen each

other again under somewhat exotic circumstances.

Over a tailor's in the Cornmarket resided one of those privileged young

beings called minors, whose inheritances are large, whose parents are

dead, whose guardians are remote, and whose instincts are vicious.

At nineteen he had commenced one of those careers attractive and

inexplicable to ordinary mortals for whom a single bankruptcy is good

as a feast. Already famous for having the only roulette table then to

be found in Oxford, he was anticipating his expectations at a dazzling

rate. He out-crummed Crum, though of a sanguine and rather beefy type

which lacked the latter's fascinating languor. For Val it had been in

the nature of baptism to be taken there to play roulette; in the nature

of confirmation to get back into college, after hours, through a

window whose bars were deceptive. Once, during that evening of delight,

glancing up from the seductive green before him, he had caught sight,

through a cloud of smoke, of his cousin standing opposite. 'Rouge gagne,

impair, et manque!' He had not seen him again.

"Come in to the Frying-pan and have tea," said Jolly, and they went in.

A stranger, seeing them together, would have noticed an unseizable

resemblance between these second cousins of the third generations of

Forsytes; the same bone formation in face, though Jolly's eyes were

darker grey, his hair lighter and more wavy.

"Tea and buttered buns, waiter, please," said Jolly.

"Have one of my cigarettes?" said Val. "I saw you last night. How did

you do?"

"I didn't play."

"I won fifteen quid."

Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he had once

heard his father make--'When you're fleeced you're sick, and when you

fleece you're sorry--Jolly contented himself with:

"Rotten game, I think; I was at school with that chap. He's an awful

fool."

"Oh! I don't know," said Val, as one might speak in defence of a

disparaged god; "he's a pretty good sport."

They exchanged whiffs in silence.

"You met my people, didn't you?" said Jolly. "They're coming up

to-morrow."

Val grew a little red.