The Forsyte Saga - Volume 3

Soames, who had passed through all the sensations of being choked,

repeated dully:

"I require you to give up this friendship."

"And if I do not?"

"Then--then I will cut you out of my Will."

Somehow it did not seem to meet the case. Annette laughed.

"You will live a long time, Soames."

"You--you are a bad woman," said Soames suddenly.

Annette shrugged her shoulders.

"I do not think so. Living with you has killed things in me, it is true;

but I am not a bad woman. I am sensible--that is all. And so will you be

when you have thought it over."

"I shall see this man," said Soames sullenly, "and warn him off."

"Mon cher, you are funny. You do not want me, you have as much of me as

you want; and you wish the rest of me to be dead. I admit nothing, but I

am not going to be dead, Soames, at my age; so you had better be quiet,

I tell you. I myself will make no scandal; none. Now, I am not saying

any more, whatever you do."

She reached out, took a French novel off a little table, and opened it.

Soames watched her, silenced by the tumult of his feelings. The thought

of that man was almost making him want her, and this was a revelation

of their relationship, startling to one little given to introspective

philosophy. Without saying another word he went out and up to the

picture-gallery. This came of marrying a Frenchwoman! And yet, without

her there would have been no Fleur! She had served her purpose.

'She's right,' he thought; 'I can do nothing. I don't even know that

there's anything in it.' The instinct of self-preservation warned him

to batten down his hatches, to smother the fire with want of air. Unless

one believed there was something in a thing, there wasn't.

That night he went into her room. She received him in the most

matter-of-fact way, as if there had been no scene between them. And he

returned to his own room with a curious sense of peace. If one didn't

choose to see, one needn't. And he did not choose--in future he did

not choose. There was nothing to be gained by it--nothing! Opening the

drawer he took from the sachet a handkerchief, and the framed photograph

of Fleur. When he had looked at it a little he slipped it down, and

there was that other one--that old one of Irene. An owl hooted while he

stood in his window gazing at it. The owl hooted, the red climbing roses

seemed to deepen in colour, there came a scent of lime-blossom. God!

That had been a different thing! Passion--Memory! Dust!