The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(216)

The words, ‘Look at that blighted plutocrat!’ assailed his ears; and in attempting to see the plutocrat in question, he became aware that it was himself. The epithets were unjust! He was modestly attired in a brown overcoat and soft felt hat; that fellow Riggs was plain enough in all conscience, and the car was an ordinary blue. True, he was alone in it, and all the other cars seemed full of people; but he did not see how he was to get over that, short of carrying into London persons desirous of going in the opposite direction. To shut the car, at all events, would look too pointed – so there was nothing for it but to sit still and take no notice! For this occupation no one could have been better framed by Nature than Soames, with his air of slightly despising creation. He sat, taking in little but his own nose, with the sun shining on his neck behind, and the crowd eddying round the police. Such violence as had been necessary to break the windows of the bus had ceased, and the block was rather what might have been caused by the Prince of Wales. With every appearance of not encouraging it by seeming to take notice, Soames was observing the crowd. And a vacant-looking lot they were, in his opinion; neither their eyes nor their hands had any of that close attention to business which alone made revolutionary conduct formidable. Youths, for the most part, with cigarettes drooping from their lips – they might have been looking at a fallen horse.

People were born gaping nowadays. And a good thing, too! Cinemas, fags, and football matches – there would be no real revolution while they were on hand; and as there seemed to be more and more on hand every year, he was just feeling that the prospect was not too bleak, when a young woman put her head over the window of his car.

‘Could you take me into town?’

Soames automatically consulted his watch. The hands pointing to seven o’clock gave him extraordinarily little help. Rather a smartly-dressed young woman, with a slight cockney accent and powder on her nose! That fellow Riggs would never have done grinning. And yet he had read in the British Gazette that everybody was doing it. Rather gruffly he said:

‘I suppose so. Where do you want to go?’

‘Oh, Leicester Square would do me all right.’

Great Scott!

The young woman seemed to sense his emotion. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I got to get something to eat before my show.’

Moreover, she was getting in! Soames nearly got out. Restraining himself, he gave her a sidelong look; actress or something – young – round face, made up, naturally – nose a little snub – eyes grey, rather goggly – mouth – h’m, pretty mouth, slightly common! Shingled – of course.

‘It’s awf’ly kind of you!’

‘Not at all!’ said Soames; and the car moved.

‘Think it’s going to last, the strike?’

Soames leaned forward.

‘Go on, Riggs,’ he said; ‘and put this young lady down in – er – Coventry Street.’

‘It’s frightf’ly awk for us, all this,’ said the young lady. ‘I should never’ve got there in time. You seen our show, Dat Lubly Lady?’

‘No.’

‘It’s rather good.’

‘Oh!’

‘We shall have to close, though, if this lasts.’

‘Ah!’

The young lady was silent, seeming to recognize that she was not in the presence of a conversationalist.

Soames re-crossed his legs. It was so long since he had spoken to a strange young woman, that he had almost forgotten how it was done. He did not want to encourage her, and yet was conscious that it was his car.

‘Comfortable?’ he said suddenly.

The young lady smiled.

‘What d’you think?’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely car.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Soames.

The young lady’s mouth opened.

‘Why?’

Soames shrugged his shoulders; he had only been keeping the conversation alive.

‘I think it’s rather fun, don’t you?’ said the young lady. ‘Carrying on – you know, like we’re all doing.’

The car was now going at speed, and Soames began to calculate the minutes necessary to put an end to this juxtaposition.

The Albert Memorial, already; he felt almost an affection for it – so guiltless of the times!

‘You must come and see our show,’ said the young lady.

Soames made an effort and looked into her face.

‘What do you do in it?’ he asked.

‘Sing and dance.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve rather a good bit in the third act, where we’re all in our nighties.’

Soames smiled faintly.

‘You’ve got no one like Kate Vaughan now,’ he said.