"Really! I can give you a rare good tip for the Manchester November
handicap."
"Thanks, I only take interest in the classic races."
"You can't make any money over them," said Val.
"I hate the ring," said Jolly; "there's such a row and stink. I like the
paddock."
"I like to back my judgment,"' answered Val.
Jolly smiled; his smile was like his father's.
"I haven't got any. I always lose money if I bet."
"You have to buy experience, of course."
"Yes, but it's all messed-up with doing people in the eye."
"Of course, or they'll do you--that's the excitement."
Jolly looked a little scornful.
"What do you do with yourself? Row?"
"No--ride, and drive about. I'm going to play polo next term, if I can
get my granddad to stump up."
"That's old Uncle James, isn't it? What's he like?"
"Older than forty hills," said Val, "and always thinking he's going to
be ruined."
"I suppose my granddad and he were brothers."
"I don't believe any of that old lot were sportsmen," said Val; "they
must have worshipped money."
"Mine didn't!" said Jolly warmly.
Val flipped the ash off his cigarette.
"Money's only fit to spend," he said; "I wish the deuce I had more."
Jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which he had
inherited from old Jolyon: One didn't talk about money! And again there
was silence, while they drank tea and ate the buttered buns.
"Where are your people going to stay?" asked Val, elaborately casual.
"'Rainbow.' What do you think of the war?"
"Rotten, so far. The Boers aren't sports a bit. Why don't they come out
into the open?"
"Why should they? They've got everything against them except their way
of fighting. I rather admire them."
"They can ride and shoot," admitted Val, "but they're a lousy lot. Do
you know Crum?"
"Of Merton? Only by sight. He's in that fast set too, isn't he? Rather
La-di-da and Brummagem."
Val said fixedly: "He's a friend of mine."
"Oh! Sorry!" And they sat awkwardly staring past each other, having
pitched on their pet points of snobbery. For Jolly was forming himself
unconsciously on a set whose motto was:
'We defy you to bore us. Life isn't half long enough, and we're going to
talk faster and more crisply, do more and know more, and dwell less on
any subject than you can possibly imagine. We are "the best"--made of
wire and whipcord.' And Val was unconsciously forming himself on a set
whose motto was: 'We defy you to interest or excite us. We have had
every sensation, or if we haven't, we pretend we have. We are so
exhausted with living that no hours are too small for us. We will lose
our shirts with equanimity. We have flown fast and are past everything.
All is cigarette smoke. Bismillah!' Competitive spirit, bone-deep in the
English, was obliging those two young Forsytes to have ideals; and at
the close of a century ideals are mixed. The aristocracy had already in
the main adopted the 'jumping-Jesus' principle; though here and there
one like Crum--who was an 'honourable'--stood starkly languid for that
gambler's Nirvana which had been the summum bonum of the old 'dandies'
and of 'the mashers' in the eighties. And round Crum were still gathered
a forlorn hope of blue-bloods with a plutocratic following.