When young Val left the presence of the last generation he was thinking:
'This is jolly dull! Uncle Soames does take the bun. I wonder what this
filly's like?' He anticipated no pleasure from her society; and suddenly
he saw her standing there looking at him. Why, she was pretty! What
luck!
"I'm afraid you don't know me," he said. "My name's Val Dartie--I'm once
removed, second cousin, something like that, you know. My mother's name
was Forsyte."
Holly, whose slim brown hand remained in his because she was too shy to
withdraw it, said:
"I don't know any of my relations. Are there many?"
"Tons. They're awful--most of them. At least, I don't know--some of
them. One's relations always are, aren't they?"
"I expect they think one awful too," said Holly.
"I don't know why they should. No one could think you awful, of course."
Holly looked at him--the wistful candour in those grey eyes gave young
Val a sudden feeling that he must protect her.
"I mean there are people and people," he added astutely. "Your dad looks
awfully decent, for instance."
"Oh yes!" said Holly fervently; "he is."
A flush mounted in Val's cheeks--that scene in the Pandemonium
promenade--the dark man with the pink carnation developing into his own
father! "But you know what the Forsytes are," he said almost viciously.
"Oh! I forgot; you don't."
"What are they?"
"Oh! fearfully careful; not sportsmen a bit. Look at Uncle Soames!"
"I'd like to," said Holly.
Val resisted a desire to run his arm through hers. "Oh! no," he said,
"let's go out. You'll see him quite soon enough. What's your brother
like?"
Holly led the way on to the terrace and down to the lawn without
answering. How describe Jolly, who, ever since she remembered anything,
had been her lord, master, and ideal?
"Does he sit on you?" said Val shrewdly. "I shall be knowing him at
Oxford. Have you got any horses?"
Holly nodded. "Would you like to see the stables?"
"Rather!"
They passed under the oak tree, through a thin shrubbery, into the
stable-yard. There under a clock-tower lay a fluffy brown-and-white dog,
so old that he did not get up, but faintly waved the tail curled over
his back.
"That's Balthasar," said Holly; "he's so old--awfully old, nearly as old
as I am. Poor old boy! He's devoted to Dad."
"Balthasar! That's a rum name. He isn't purebred you know."
"No! but he's a darling," and she bent down to stroke the dog. Gentle
and supple, with dark covered head and slim browned neck and hands, she
seemed to Val strange and sweet, like a thing slipped between him and
all previous knowledge.