On his way to Green Street it occurred to Soames that he ought to go

into Dumetrius' in Suffolk Street about the possibility of the Bolderby

Old Crome. Almost worth while to have fought the war to have the

Bolderby Old Crome, as it were, in flux! Old Bolderby had died, his son

and grandson had been killed--a cousin was coming into the estate, who

meant to sell it, some said because of the condition of England, others

said because he had asthma.

If Dumetrius once got hold of it the price would become prohibitive;

it was necessary for Soames to find out whether Dumetrius had got it,

before he tried to get it himself. He therefore confined himself to

discussing with Dumetrius whether Monticellis would come again now that

it was the fashion for a picture to be anything except a picture; and

the future of Johns, with a side-slip into Buxton Knights. It was only

when leaving that he added: "So they're not selling the Bolderby Old

Crome, after all?" In sheer pride of racial superiority, as he had

calculated would be the case, Dumetrius replied:

"Oh! I shall get it, Mr. Forsyte, sir!"

The flutter of his eyelid fortified Soames in a resolution to write

direct to the new Bolderby, suggesting that the only dignified way

of dealing with an Old Crome was to avoid dealers. He therefore said,

"Well, good-day!" and went, leaving Dumetrius the wiser.

At Green Street he found that Fleur was out and would be all the

evening; she was staying one more night in London. He cabbed on

dejectedly, and caught his train.

He reached his house about six o'clock. The air was heavy, midges

biting, thunder about. Taking his letters he went up to his

dressing-room to cleanse himself of London.

An uninteresting post. A receipt, a bill for purchases on behalf of

Fleur. A circular about an exhibition of etchings. A letter beginning:

"SIR,

"I feel it my duty..."

That would be an appeal or something unpleasant. He looked at once for

the signature. There was none! Incredulously he turned the page over and

examined each corner. Not being a public man, Soames had never yet

had an anonymous letter, and his first impulse was to tear it up, as a

dangerous thing; his second to read it, as a thing still more dangerous.

"SIR,

"I feel it my duty to inform you that having no interest in the

matter your lady is carrying on with a foreigner--"

Reaching that word Soames stopped mechanically and examined the

postmark. So far as he could pierce the impenetrable disguise in which

the Post Office had wrapped it, there was something with a "sea" at the

end and a "t" in it. Chelsea? No! Battersea? Perhaps! He read on.




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