"Our name is Forsyte, my dear," replied Jolyon in the ironical voice
to which his impetuous daughter had never quite grown accustomed; "and
Forsytes, you know, are people who so settle their property that their
grandchildren, in case they should die before their parents, have to
make wills leaving the property that will only come to themselves
when their parents die. Do you follow that? Nor do I, but it's a fact,
anyway; we live by the principle that so long as there is a possibility
of keeping wealth in the family it must not go out; if you die
unmarried, your money goes to Jolly and Holly and their children if they
marry. Isn't it pleasant to know that whatever you do you can none of
you be destitute?"
"But can't I borrow the money?"
Jolyon shook his head. "You could rent a Gallery, no doubt, if you could
manage it out of your income."
June uttered a contemptuous sound.
"Yes; and have no income left to help anybody with."
"My dear child," murmured Jolyon, "wouldn't it come to the same thing?"
"No," said June shrewdly, "I could buy for ten thousand; that would only
be four hundred a year. But I should have to pay a thousand a year rent,
and that would only leave me five hundred. If I had the Gallery, Dad,
think what I could do. I could make Eric Cobbley's name in no time, and
ever so many others."
"Names worth making make themselves in time."
"When they're dead."
"Did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having his name
made?"
"Yes, you," said June, pressing his arm.
Jolyon started. 'I?' he thought. 'Oh! Ah! Now she's going to ask me to
do something. We take it out, we Forsytes, each in our different ways.'
June came closer to him in the cab.
"Darling," she said, "you buy the Gallery, and I'll pay you four hundred
a year for it. Then neither of us will be any the worse off. Besides,
it's a splendid investment."
Jolyon wriggled. "Don't you think," he said, "that for an artist to buy
a Gallery is a bit dubious? Besides, ten thousand pounds is a lump, and
I'm not a commercial character."
June looked at him with admiring appraisement.
"Of course you're not, but you're awfully businesslike. And I'm sure we
could make it pay. It'll be a perfect way of scoring off those wretched
dealers and people." And again she squeezed her father's arm.
Jolyon's face expressed quizzical despair.
"Where is this desirable Gallery? Splendidly situated, I suppose?"
"Just off Cork Street."
'Ah!' thought Jolyon, 'I knew it was just off somewhere. Now for what I
want out of her!'