Soames Forsyte emerged from the Knightsbridge Hotel, where he was

staying, in the afternoon of the 12th of May, 1920, with the intention

of visiting a collection of pictures in a Gallery off Cork Street, and

looking into the Future. He walked. Since the War he never took a cab

if he could help it. Their drivers were, in his view, an uncivil lot,

though now that the War was over and supply beginning to exceed demand

again, getting more civil in accordance with the custom of human nature.

Still, he had not forgiven them, deeply identifying them with gloomy

memories, and now, dimly, like all members, of their class, with

revolution. The considerable anxiety he had passed through during the

War, and the more considerable anxiety he had since undergone in the

Peace, had produced psychological consequences in a tenacious nature.

He had, mentally, so frequently experienced ruin, that he had ceased to

believe in its material probability. Paying away four thousand a year in

income and super tax, one could not very well be worse off! A fortune of

a quarter of a million, encumbered only by a wife and one daughter, and

very diversely invested, afforded substantial guarantee even against

that "wildcat notion" a levy on capital. And as to confiscation of war

profits, he was entirely in favour of it, for he had none, and "serve

the beggars right!" The price of pictures, moreover, had, if anything,

gone up, and he had done better with his collection since the War began

than ever before. Air-raids, also, had acted beneficially on a spirit

congenitally cautious, and hardened a character already dogged. To be in

danger of being entirely dispersed inclined one to be less apprehensive

of the more partial dispersions involved in levies and taxation, while

the habit of condemning the impudence of the Germans had led naturally

to condemning that of Labour, if not openly at least in the sanctuary of

his soul.

He walked. There was, moreover, time to spare, for Fleur was to meet him

at the Gallery at four o'clock, and it was as yet but half-past two. It

was good for him to walk--his liver was a little constricted, and his

nerves rather on edge. His wife was always out when she was in Town, and

his daughter would flibberty-gibbet all over the place like most young

women since the War. Still, he must be thankful that she had been too

young to do anything in that War itself. Not, of course, that he had

not supported the War from its inception, with all his soul, but between

that and supporting it with the bodies of his wife and daughter,

there had been a gap fixed by something old-fashioned within him which

abhorred emotional extravagance. He had, for instance, strongly objected

to Annette, so attractive, and in 1914 only thirty-four, going to her

native France, her "chere patrie" as, under the stimulus of war, she had

begun to call it, to nurse her "braves poilus," forsooth! Ruining

her health and her looks! As if she were really a nurse! He had put a

stopper on it. Let her do needlework for them at home, or knit! She had

not gone, therefore, and had never been quite the same woman since. A

bad tendency of hers to mock at him, not openly, but in continual little

ways, had grown. As for Fleur, the War had resolved the vexed problem

whether or not she should go to school. She was better away from her

mother in her war mood, from the chance of air-raids, and the impetus to

do extravagant things; so he had placed her in a seminary as far West

as had seemed to him compatible with excellence, and had missed her

horribly. Fleur! He had never regretted the somewhat outlandish name

by which at her birth he had decided so suddenly to call her--marked

concession though it had been to the French. Fleur! A pretty name--a

pretty child! But restless--too restless; and wilful! Knowing her power

too over her father! Soames often reflected on the mistake it was to

dote on his daughter. To get old and dote! Sixty-five! He was getting

on; but he didn't feel it, for, fortunately perhaps, considering

Annette's youth and good looks, his second marriage had turned out a

cool affair. He had known but one real passion in his life--for that

first wife of his--Irene. Yes, and that fellow, his cousin Jolyon, who

had gone off with her, was looking very shaky, they said. No wonder, at

seventy-two, after twenty years of a third marriage!




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