Michael had a vision of his father-in-law, like a plain-clothes man in the neighbourhood of wedding-presents.
But in spite of assumed levity, Michael had been hit. The knowledge that his adored one had the collector’s habit, uid flitted, alluring, among the profitable, had, so far, caused him only indulgent wonder. But now it seemed more than an amusing foible. The swiftness with which she turned her smile off and on as though controlled by a switch under her shingled hair; the quick turns of her neck, so charming and exposed; the clever roving, disguised so well but not quite well enough, of the pretty eyes; the droop and flutter of their white lids; the expressive hands grasping, if one could so call such slim and dainty apprehensions, her career – all this suddenly caused Michael pain. Still she was doing it for him and Kit! French women, they said, co-operated with their husbands in the family career. It was the French blood in her. Or perhaps just idealism, the desire to have and be the best of whatever bunch there was about! Thus Michael, loyally. But his uneasy eyes roved from face to face of the Wednesday gathering, trying to detect signs of quizzicality.
Soames followed another method. His mind, indeed, was uncomplicated by the currents awash in that of one who goes to bed with the object of his criticism. For him there was no reason why Fleur should not know as many aristocrats, Labour members, painters, ambassadors, young fools, even writing fellows, as might flutter her fancy. The higher up they were, the less likely, he thought with a certain naïveté, they would be to borrow money or get her into a mess. His daughter was as good or better than any of them, and his deep pride was stung to the quick by the notion that people should think she had to claw and scrape to get them round her. It was not she who was after them, but they who were after her! Standing under the Fragonard which he had given her, grizzled, neatly moustached, close-faced, chinny, with a gaze concentrated on nothing in particular, as of one who has looked over much and found little in it, he might have been one of her ambassadors.
A young woman, with red-gold hair, about an inch long on her de-shingled neck, came and stood with her back to him, beside a soft man, who kept washing his hands. Soames could hear every word of their talk.
‘Isn’t the little Mont amusing? Look at her now, with “Don Fernando” – you’d think he was her only joy. Ah! There’s young Bashly! Off she goes. She’s a born little snob. But that doesn’t make this a “salon”, as she thinks. To found a “salon” you want personality, and wit, and the “don’t care a damn” spirit. She hasn’t got a scrap. Besides, who is she?’
‘Money?’ said the soft man.
‘Not so very much. Michael’s such dead nuts on her that he’s getting dull; though it’s partly Parliament, of course. Have you heard them talk this Foggartism? All food, children, and the future – the very dregs of dullness.’
‘Novelty,’ purred the soft man, ‘is the vice of our age.’
‘One resents a nobody like her climbing in on piffle like this Foggartism. Did you read the book?’
‘Hardly. Did you?’
‘No jolly fear! I’m sorry for Michael. He’s being exploited by that little snob.’
Penned without an outlet, Soames had begun breathing hard. Feeling a draught, perhaps, the young woman turned to encounter a pair of eyes so grey, so cold, in a face so concentrated, that she moved away. ‘Who was that old buffer?’ she asked of the soft man; ‘he gave me “the jim-jams.”’
The soft man thought it might be a poor relation – he didn’t seem to know anybody.
But Soames had already gone across to Michael.
‘Who’s the young woman with the red hair?’
‘Marjorie Ferrar.’
‘She’s the traitresss – turn her out!’
Michael stared.
‘But we know her quite well – she’s a daughter of Lord Charles Ferrar, and –’
‘Turn her out!’ said Soames again.
‘How do you know that she’s the traitresss, sir?’
‘I’ve just heard her use the very words of that paragraph, and worse.’
‘But she’s our guest.’
‘Pretty guest!’ growled Soames through his teeth.
‘One can’t turn a guest out. Besides, she is the granddaughter of a marques and the pet of the Panjoys – it would make the deuce of a scandal.’
‘Make it, then!’
‘We won’t ask her again; but really, that’s all one can do.’
‘Is it?’ said Soames; and walking past his son-in-law, he went towards the object of his denunciation. Michael followed, much perturbed. He had never yet seen his father-in-law with his teeth bared. He arrived in time to hear him say in a low but quite audible voice: