The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(184)

Renewed interviews with very young Nicholas and Sir James Foskisson had confirmed the idea of defence by attack on modern morality. Foskisson was evidently going to put his heart into attacking that from which he had perhaps suffered; and if he were at all like old Bobstay, who, aged eighty-two, had just published his reminiscences, that cat would lose her hair and give herself away. Yesterday afternoon Soames had taken an hour’s look at Mr Justice Brane, and been very favourably impressed; the learned judge, though younger than himself – he had often briefed him in other times – looked old-fashioned enough now for anything.

Having cleaned his teeth, put in his plate, and brushed his hair, Soames went into the adjoining room and told Annette she would be late. She always looked terribly young and well in bed, and this, though a satisfaction to him, he could never quite for give. When he was gone, fifteen years hence, perhaps, she would still be under sixty, and might live another twenty years.

Having roused her sufficiently to say: ‘You will have plenty of time to be fussy in that Court, Soames,’ he went back and looked out of his window. The air smelled of spring – aggravating! He bathed and shaved with care – didn’t want to go into the Box with a cut on his chin! – then went back to see that Annette was not putting on anything bright. He found her in pink underclothes.

‘I should wear black,’ he said.

Annette regarded him above her hand-mirror.

‘Whom do you want me to fascinate, Soames?’

‘These people will bring their friends, I shouldn’t wonder; anything conspicuous –’

‘Don’t be afraid; I shall not try to be younger than my daughter.’

Soames went out again. The French! Well, she had good taste in dress.

After breakfast he went off to Fleur’s. Winifred and Imogen would look after Annette – they too were going to the Court, as if there were anything to enjoy about this business!

Spruce in his silk hat, he walked across the Green Park, conning over his evidence. No buds on the trees – a late year; and the Royal Family out of town! Passing the Palace, he thought: ‘They’re very popular!’ He supposed they liked this great Empire group in front of them, all muscle and flesh and large animals! The Albert Memorial, and this – everybody ran them down; but, after all, peace and plenty – nothing modern about them! Emerging into Westminster, he cut his way through a smell of fried fish into the Parliamentary backwater of North Street, and, between its pleasant little houses, gazed steadily at the Wren Church. Never going inside any church except St. Paul’s, he derived a sort of strength from their out sides – churches were solid and stood back, and didn’t seem to care what people thought of them! He felt a little better, rounding into South Square. The Dandie met him in the hall. Though he was not over-fond of dogs, the breadth and solidity of this one always affected Soames pleasurably – better than that little Chinese abortion they used to have! This dog was a character – masterful and tenacious – you would get very little out of him in a witness-box! Looking up from the dog, he saw Michael and Fleur coming down the stairs. After hurriedly inspecting Michael’s brown suit and speckled tie, his eyes came to anchor on his daughter’s face. Pale but creamy, nothing modern – thank goodness! no rouge, salve, powder, or eye-blacking; perfectly made-up for her part! In a blue dress, too, very good taste, which must have taken some finding! The desire that she should not feel nervous stilled Soames’s private qualms.

‘Quite a smell of spring!’ he said: ‘Shall we start?’

While a cab was being summoned, he tried to put her at ease.

‘I had a look at Brane yesterday; he’s changed a good deal from when I used to know him. I was one of the first to give him briefs.’

‘That’s bad, isn’t it, sir?’ said Michael.

‘How?’

‘He’ll be afraid of being thought grateful.’

Flippant, as usual!

‘Our judges,’ he said, ‘are a good lot, take them all round.’

‘I’m sure they are. Do you know if he ever reads, sir?’

‘How d’you mean – reads?’

‘Fiction. We don’t, in Parliament.’

‘Nobody reads novels, except women,’ said Soames. And he felt Fleur’s dress. ‘You’ll want a fur; that’s flimsy.’

While she was getting the fur, he said to Michael: ‘How did she sleep?’

‘Better than I did, sir.’

‘That’s a comfort, anyway. Here’s the cab. Keep away from that Scotchman.’

‘I see him every day in the House, you know.’