The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(124)

“SHROPSHIRE.”

Thank you, Mr Mersey. Now, my dear young Mont?’

Having watched the back of the secretary till it vanished, and noted the old peer pivoting his bright eyes, with their expression of one who means to see more every day, on his visitor, Sir Lawrence took his eyeglass between thumb and finger, and said:

‘Your granddaughter, sir, and my daughter-in-law want to fight like billy-o.’

‘Marjorie?’ said the old man, and his head fell to one side like a bird’s. ‘I draw the line – a charming young woman to look at, but I draw the line. What has she done now?’

‘Called my daughter-in-law a snob and a lion-hunter; and my daughter-in-law’s father has called your granddaughter a traitress to her face.’

‘Bold man,’ said the marquess; ‘bold man! Who is he?’

‘His name is Forsyte.’

‘Forsyte?’ repeated the old peer; ‘Forsyte? The name’s familiar – now where would that be? Ah! Forsyte and Treffry – the big tea men. My father had his tea from them direct – real caravan; no such tea now. Is that the – ?’

‘Some relation, perhaps. This man is a solicitor – retired; chiefly renowned from his pictures. A man of some substance, and probity.’

‘Indeed! And is his daughter a – a lion-hunter?’

Sir Lawrence smiled.

‘She’s a charmer. Likes to have people about her. Very pretty. Excellent little mother; some French blood.’

‘Ah!’ said the marquess: ‘the French! Better built round the middle than our people. What do you want me to do?’

‘Speak to your son Charles.’

The old man took his foot off the chair, and stood nearly upright. His head moved sideways with a slight continuous motion.

‘I never speak to Charlie,’ he said gravely. ‘We haven’t spoken for six years.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Didn’t know. Sorry to have bothered you.’

‘No, no; pleasure to see you. If I run across Marjorie, I’ll see – I’ll see. But, my dear Mont, what shall we do with these young women – no sense of service; no continuity; no hair; no figures? By the way, do you know this Power Scheme on the Severn?’ He held up a pamphlet: ‘I’ve been at them to do it for years. My colliery among others could be made to pay with electricity; but they won’t move. We want some Americans over here.’

Sir Lawrence had risen; the old man’s sense of service had so clearly taken the bit between its teeth again. He held out his hand.

‘Good-bye, Marquess; delighted to see you looking so well.’

‘Good-bye, my dear young Mont; command me at any time, and let me have another of your nice books.’

They shook hands; and from the Lovat clothes was disengaged a strong whiff of peat. Sir Lawrence, looking back, saw the old man back in his favourite attitude, foot on chair and chin on hand, already reading the pamphlet. ‘Some boy I’ he thought; ‘as Michael would say. But what has Charlie Ferrar done not to be spoken to for six years? Old Forsyte ought, to know.… ’

In the meantime ‘Old Forsyte’ and Michael were walking homewards across St James’s Park.

‘That young American,’ said Soames; ‘What do you suppose made him put his oar in?’

‘I don’t know, sir; and I don’t like to ask.’

‘Exactly,’ said Soames, glumly. There was, indeed something repulsive to him in treating with an American over a matter of personal dignity.

‘Do they use the word “snob” over there?’

‘I’m not sure; but, in the States to hunt lions is a form of idealism. They want to associate with what they think better than themselves. It’s rather fine.’

Soames did not agree; but found difficulty in explaining why. Not to recognize anyone as better than himself or his daughter had been a sort of guiding principle, and guiding principles were not talked about. In fact, it was so deep in him that he hadn’t known of it.

‘I shan’t mention it,’ he said, ‘unless he does. What more can this young woman do? She’s in a set, I suppose?’

‘The Panjoys –’

‘Panjoys!’

‘Yes, sir; out for a good time at any cost – they don’t really count, of course. But Marjorie Ferrar is frightfully in the lime-light. She paints a bit; she’s got some standing with the Press; she dances; she hunts; she’s something of an actress; she goes everywhere week-ending. It’s the week-ends that matter, where people have nothing to do but talk. Were you ever at a week-end party, sir?’

‘I?’ said Soames: ‘Good Lord – no!’