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The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(102)



A gruff and deprecating: ‘Dear me! They won’t like it!’ irritated Soames.

‘Then they must lump it! I want a rest.’

He did not mean to enter into the reason – Gradman could read it for himself in the Financial News, or whatever he took in.

‘Then I shan’t be seeing you so often, Mr Soames; there’s never anything in Mr Timothy’s. Dear me! I’m quite upset. Won’t you keep your sister’s?’

Soames looked at the old fellow, and compunction stirred within him – as ever, at any sign that he was appreciated.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘keep me in hers; I shall be in about my own affairs, of course. Good afternoon, Gradman. That’s a fine melon.’

He waited for no more words. The old chap! He couldn’t last much longer, anyway, sturly as he looked! Well, they would find it hard to match him!

On reaching the Poultry, he decided to go to Green Street and see Winifred – queerly and suddenly home-sick for the proximity of Park Lane, for the old secure days, the efflorescent privacy of his youth under the wings of James and Emily. Winifred alone represented for him now, the past; her solid nature never varied, however much she kept up with the fashions.

He found her, a little youthful in costume, drinking China tea, which she did not like – but what could one do, other teas were ‘common’! She had taken to a parrot. Parrots were coming in again. The bird made a dreadful noise. Whether under its influence or that of the China tea – which, made in the English way, of a brand the Chinese grew for foreign stomachs, always upset him – he was soon telling her the whole story.

When he had finished, Winifred said comfortably:

‘Well, Soames, I think you did splendidly; it serves them right!’

Conscious that his narrative must have presented the truth as it would not appear to the public, Soames muttered:

‘That’s all very well; you’ll find a very different version in the financial papers.’

‘Oh! but nobody reads them. I shouldn’t worry. Do you do Coué? Such a comfortable little man, Soames; I went to hear him. It’s rather a bore sometimes, but it’s quite the latest thing.’

Soames became inaudible – he never confessed a weakness.

‘And how,’ asked Winifred, ‘is Fleur’s little affair?’

‘“Little affair I”’ echoed a voice above his head. That bird! It was clinging to the brocade curtains, moving its neck up and down.

‘Polly!’ said Winifred: ‘don’t be naughty!’

‘Soames!’ said the bird.

‘I’ve taught him that. Isn’t he rather sweet?’

‘No,’ said Soames. ‘I should shut him up; he’ll spoil your curtains.’

The vexation of the afternoon had revived within him suddenly. What was life, but parrotry? What did people see of the real truth? They just repeated each other, like a lot of shareholders, or got their precious sentiments out of The Daily Liar. For one person who took a line, a hundred followed on, like sheep!

‘You’ll stay and dine, dear boy!’ said Winifred.

Yes! he would dine. Had she a melon, by any chance? He’d no inclination to go and sit opposite his wife at South Square. Ten to one Fleur would not be down. And as to young Michael – the fellow had been there that afternoon and witnessed the whole thing; he’d no wish to go over it again.

He was washing his hands for dinner, when a maid, outside, said:

‘You’re wanted on the phone, sir.’

Michael’s voice came over the wire, strained and husky:

‘That you, sir?’

‘Yes. What is it?’

‘Fleur. It began this afternoon at three. I’ve been trying to reach you.’

‘What?’ cried Soames. ‘How? Quick!’

‘They say it’s all normal. But it’s so awful. They say quite soon, now.’ The voice broke off.

‘My God!’ said Soames. ‘My hat!’

By the front door the maid was asking: ‘Shall you be back to dinner, sir?’

‘Dinner!’ muttered Soames, and was gone.

He hurried along, almost running, his eyes searching for a cab. None to be had, of course! None to be had! Opposite the ‘Iseeum’ Club he got one, open in the fine weather after last night’s storm. That storm! He might have known. Ten days before her time. Why on earth hadn’t he gone straight back, or at least telephoned where he would be? All that he had been through that afternoon was gone like smoke. Poor child! Poor little thing! And what about twilight sleep? Why hadn’t he been there? He might have – nature! Damn it! Nature – as if it couldn’t leave even her alone!