‘I wonder if I ought to take on any more temporary trouble. I’m finding it difficult enough to interest people in the future as it is – they seem to think the present so important.’
Sir Lawrence whinnied.
‘You must give him time and pamphlets, Marquess. But, my dear fellow, while your Foggartism is confined to the stable, you’ll want a second horse.’
‘I’ve been advised already to take up the state of the traffic or penny postage. And, by the way, sir, that case of ours is coming into Court next week.’
Sir Lawrence’s loose eyebrow shot up:
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Do you remember, Marquess – your granddaughter and my daughter-in-law? I came to you about it.’
‘Something to do with lions? A libel, was it?’ said the old peer. ‘My aunt –’
While Michael was trying to decide whether this was an ejaculation or the beginning of a reminiscence, his father broke in:
‘Ah! yes, an interesting case that, Marquess – it’s all in Betty Montecourt’s Memoirs.’
‘Libels,’ resumed the marquess, ‘had flavour in those days. The words complained of were: “Her crinoline covers her considerable obliquity.”’
‘If anything’s to be done to save scandal,’ muttered Michael, ‘it must be done now. We’re at a deadlock.’
‘Could you put in a word, sir?’ said Sir Lawrence.
The marquess’s beard quivered.
‘I see from the papers that my granddaughter is marrying a man called MacGown, a Member of this House. Is he about?’
‘Probably,’ said Michael. ‘But I had a row with him. I think, sir, there would be more chance with her.’
The marquess rose. ‘I’ll ask her to breakfast. I dislike publicity. Well, I hope you’ll vote for this Bill, Mr Mont, and think over the question of electrifying the country. We want young men interested. I’m going to the Peers’ Gallery now. Good-bye!’
When briskly he had gone, Michael said to his father: ‘If he’s not going to have it, I wish he’d ask Fleur to breakfast, too. There are two parties to this quarrel.’
Chapter Three
SOAMES DRIVES HOME
SOAMES in the meantime was seated with one of those parties in her ‘parlour’. She had listened in silence, but with a stubborn and resentful face. What did he know of the loneliness and frustration she had been feeling? Could he tell that the thrown stone had started her mirrored image of herself; that the words ‘snob’ and ‘lion-huntress’ had entered her very soul? He could not understand the spiritual injury she had received, the sudden deprivation of that self-importance, and hope of rising, necessary to all. Concerned by the expression on her face, preoccupied with the practical aspects of the ‘circus’ before them, and desperately involved in thoughts of how to keep her out of it as much as possible, Soames was reduced to the closeness of a fish.
‘You’ll be sitting in front, next to me,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t wear anything too bright. Would you like your mother there, too?’
Fleur shrugged her shoulders.
‘Just so,’ said Soames. ‘But if she wants to come, she’d better, perhaps. Brane is not a joking judge, thank goodness. Have you ever been in a Court?’
‘No.’
‘The great thing is to keep still and pay no attention to anything. They’ll all be behind you, except the jury – and there’s nothing in them, really. If you look at them, don’t smile!’
‘Why? Aren’t they safe, Dad?’
Soames put the levity aside.
‘I should wear a small hat. Michael must sit on your left. Have you got over that – er – not telling each other things?’
‘Yes.’
‘I shouldn’t begin it again. He’s very fond of you.’
Fleur nodded.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me? You know I – I worry about you.’
Fleur got up and sat on the arm of his chair; he had at once a feeling of assuagement
‘I really don’t care now. The harm’s done. I only hope she’ll have a bad time.’
Soames, who had the same hope, was somewhat shocked by its expression.
He took leave of her soon after and got into his car for the dark drive back to Mapledurham. The spring evening was cold and he had the window up. At first he thought of very little; and then of still less. He had passed a tiring afternoon, and was glad of the slight smell of stephanotis provided by Annette. The road was too familiar to rouse his thoughts, beyond wonder at the lot of people there always seemed to be in the world between six and seven. He dozed his way into the new cut, woke, and dozed again. What was this – Slough? Before going to Marlborough he had been at school there with young Nicholas and St John Heyman, and after his time, some other young Forsytes. Nearly sixty years ago! He remembered his first day – a brand-new little boy in a brand-new little top-hat, with a play-box stored by his mother with things to eat, and blessed with the words: ‘There, Summy dear, that’ll make you popular.’ He had reckoned on having command of that corruption for some weeks; but no sooner had he produced a bit of it than they had taken the box, and suggested to him that it would be a good thing to eat the lot. In twenty-two minutes twenty-two boys had materially increased their weight, and he himself, in handing out the contents, had been obliged to eat less than a twenty-third. They had left him one packet of biscuits, and those had caraway seeds, for which he had constitutionally no passion whatever. Afterwards, three other new boys had complained that he was a fool for having it all eaten up like that, instead of saving it for them, and he had been obliged to sit on their heads one by one. His popularity had lasted twenty-two minutes, and, so far as he knew, had never come back. He had been against Communism ever since.