Over his egg Soames had said:
‘Well, the Budget’s dished.’
Over his marmalade Michael answered:
‘Used you to have this sort of thing in your young days, sir?’
‘No,’ said Soames; ‘no Trade union ism then, to speak of.’
‘People are saying this’ll be the end of it What’s your opinion of the strike as a weapon, sir?’
‘For the purposes of suicide, perfect. It’s a wonder they haven’t found that out long ago.’
‘I rather agree, but what’s the alternative?’
‘Well,’ said Soames, ‘they’ve got the vote.’
‘Yes, that’s always said. But somehow Parliament seems to matter less and less; there’s a directive sense in the country now, which really settles things before we get down to them in Parliament. Look at this strike, for instance; we can do nothing about it.’
‘There must be government,’ said Soames.
‘Administration – of course. But all we seem able to do in Parliament is to discuss administration afterwards without much effect. The fact is, things swop around too quick for us nowadays.’
‘Well,’ said Soames, ‘you know your own business best. Parliament always was a talking shop.’ And with that unconscious quotation from Carlyle – an extravagant writer whom he curiously connected with revolution – he looked up at the Goya, and added: ‘I shouldn’t like to see Parliament done away with, though. Ever heard any more of that red-haired young woman?’
‘Marjorie Ferrar? Oddly enough, I saw her yesterday in Whitehall. She told me she was driving for Downing Street.’
‘She spoke to you?’
‘Oh yes. No ill feeling.’
‘H’m!’ said Soames. ‘I don’t understand this generation. Is she married?’
‘No.’
‘That chap MacGown had a lucky escape – not that he deserved it. Fleur doesn’t miss her evenings?’
Michael did not answer. He did not know. Fleur and he were on such perfect terms that they had no real knowledge of each other’s thoughts. Then, feeling his father-in-law’s grey eye gim-letting into him, he said hastily:
‘Fleur’s all right, sir.’
Soames nodded. ‘Don’t let her overdo this canteen.’
‘She’s thoroughly enjoying it – gives her head a chance.’
‘Yes,’ said Soames, ‘she’s got a good little head, when she doesn’t lose it.’ He seemed again to consult the Goya, and added:
‘By the way, that young Jon Forsyte is over here – they tell me – staying at Green Street, and stoking an engine or something. A boy-and-girl affair; but I thought you ought to know.’
‘Oh!’ said Michael, ‘thanks. I hadn’t heard.’
‘I don’t suppose she’s heard, either,’ said Soames guardedly; ‘I told them not to tell her. D’you remember, in America, up at Mount Vernon, when I was taken ill?’
‘Yes, sir; very well.’
‘Well, I wasn’t. Fact is, I saw that young man and his wife talking to you on the stairs. Thought it better that Fleur shouldn’t run up against them. These things are very silly, but you never can tell.’
‘No,’ said Michael dryly; ‘you never can tell. I remember liking the look of him a good deal.’
‘Hm!’ muttered Soames. ‘He’s the son of his father, I expect.’
And, from the expression on his face, Michael formed the notion that this was a doubtful advantage.
No more was said, because of Soames’s lifelong conviction that one did not say any more than one need say; and of Michael’s prejudice against discussing Fleur seriously, even with her father. She had seemed to him quite happy lately. After five and a half years of marriage, he was sure that mentally Fleur liked him, that physically she had no objection to him, and that a man was not sensible if he expected much more. She consistently declined, of course, to duplicate Kit, but only because she did not want to be put out of action again for months at a time. The more active, the happier she was – over this canteen, for instance she was in her glory. If, indeed, he had realized that Jon Forsyte was being fed there, Michael would have been troubled; as it was, the news of the young man’s reappearance in England made no great impression. The country held the field of one’s attention those strenuous days. The multiple evidence of patriotism exhilarated him – undergraduates at the docks, young women driving cars, shopfolk walking cheerfully to their work, the swarms of ‘specials’, the general ‘carrying-on’. Even the strikers were good-humoured. A secret conviction of his own concerning England was being reinforced day by day, in refutation of the pessimists. And there was no place so un-English at the moment, he felt, as the House of Commons, where people had nothing to do but pull long faces and talk over ‘the situation’.