The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(223)

‘They say she’s running it very well. I do think all these young women are so smart.’

‘Quick enough,’ grumbled Soames, ‘but steady does it in the long run.’

At that phrase – a maxim never far away from the lips of the old Forsytes in her youthful days – Winifred blinked her rather too light eyelashes.

‘That was always rather a bore, you know, Soames. And in these days, if you’re not quick, things move past you, so.’

Soames gathered his hat. ‘That snuff-box will, if we don’t look sharp.’

‘Well, thank you, dear boy. I do hope we get it back. The dear Pater was so proud of it, and when he died it wasn’t worth half what it is now.’

‘Not a quarter,’ said Soames, and the thought bored into him as he walked away. What was the use of having judgement, if anybody could come along and pocket the results! People sneered at property nowadays; but property was a proof of good judgement – it was one’s amour propre half the time. And he thought of the amour propre Bosinney had stolen from him in those far-off days of trouble. Yes, even marriage – was an exercise of judgement – a pitting of yourself against other people. You ‘spotted a winner’, as they called it, or you didn’t – Irene hadn’t been ‘a winner’ – not exactly! Ah! And he had forgotten to ask Winifred about that young Jon Forsyte who had suddenly come back into the wind. But about this snuff-box! The Brummell Club was some sort of betting place, he had heard; full of gamblers, and people who did and sold things on commission, he shouldn’t wonder. That was the vice of the day; that and the dole. Work? No! Sell things on commission–motor-cars, for choice. Brummell Club! Yes! This was the place! It had a window – he remembered. No harm, anyway, in asking if the fellow really belonged there I And entering, he enquired:

‘Mr Stainford a member here?’

‘Yes. Don’t know if he’s in. Mr Stainford been in, Bob?’

‘Just come in.’

‘Oh!’ said Soames, rather taken aback.

‘Gentleman to see him, Bob.’

A rather sinking sensation occurred within Soames.

‘Come with me, sir.’

Soames took a deep breath, and his legs moved. In an alcove off the entrance – somewhat shabby and constricted – he could see a man lolling in an old armchair, smoking a cigarette through a holder. He had a little red book in one hand and a small pencil in the other, and held them as still as if he were about to jot down a conviction that he had not got. He wore a dark suit with little lines; his legs were crossed, and Soames noted that one foot in a worn brown shoe, treed and polished against age to the point of pathos, was slowly moving in a circle.

‘Gemman to see you, sir.’

Soames now saw the face. Its eyebrows were lifted in a V reversed, its eyelids nearly covered its eyes. Together with the figure, it gave an impression of really remarkable languor. Thin to a degree, oval and pale, it seemed all shadow and slightly aquiline feature. The foot had become still, the whole affair still. Soames had the curious feeling of being in the presence of something arrogantly dead. Without time for thought, he began:

‘Mr Stainford, I think? Don’t disturb yourself. My name is Forsyte. You called at my sister’s in Green Street yesterday afternoon.’

A slight contraction of the lines round that small mouth was followed by the words:

‘Will you sit down?’

The eyes had opened now, and must once have been beautiful. They narrowed again, so that Soames could not help feeling that their owner had outlived everything except himself. He swallowed a qualm and resumed:

‘I just wanted to ask you a question. During your call, did you by any chance happen to notice a Louis Quinze snuff-box on the table? It’s – er – disappeared, and we want to fix the time of its loss.’

As a ghost might have smiled, so did the man in the chair; his eyes disappeared still further.

‘Afraid not.’

With the thought: ‘He’s got it!’ Soames went on:

‘I’m sorry – the thing had virtue as an heirloom. It has obviously been stolen. I wanted to narrow down the issue. If you’d noticed it, we could have fixed the exact hour – on the little table just where you were sitting – blue enamel.’

The thin shoulders wriggled slightly, as though resenting this attempt to place responsibility on them.

‘Sorry I can’t help you; I noticed nothing but some rather good marqueterie.’

‘Coolest card I ever saw,’ thought Soames. ‘Wonder if it’s in his pocket.’

‘The thing’s unique,’ he said slowly. ‘The police won’t have much difficulty. Well, thanks very much. I apologize for troubling you. You knew my nephew at college, I believe. Good-morning.’