The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(282)

‘Is there no limit?’

‘A limit,’ said Fleur, ‘is what you can’t go beyond; one can always became more vacuous.’

The words were nothing, for, after all, cynicism was in fashion, but the tone made Michael shiver; he felt in it a personal ring. Did she, then, feel her life so vacuous; and, if so, why?

‘They say,’ said Fleur, ‘there’s another American dance coming, called “The White Beam”, that’s got even less in it.’

‘Not possible,’ muttered Michael; ‘for congenial idiocy this’ll never be surpassed. Look at those two!’

The two in question were wobbling towards them with their knees flexed as if their souls had slipped down into them; their eyes regarded Fleur and Michael with no more expression then could have been found in four first-class marbles. A strange earnestness radiated from them below the waist, but above that line they seemed to have passed away. The music stopped, and each of the seven couples stopped also and began to clap their hands, holding them low, as though afraid of disturbing the vacuity attained above.

‘I refuse to believe it,’ said Michael, suddenly.

‘What?’

‘That this represents our age – no beauty, no joy, no skill, not even devil – just look a fool and wobble your knees.’

‘You can’t do it, you see.’

‘D’you mean you can?’

‘Of course,’ said Fleur; ‘one must keep up with things.’

‘Well, for the land’s sake, don’t let me see you.’

At this moment the seven couples stopped clapping their hands – the band had broken into a tune to which the knee could not be flexed. Michael and Fleur began to dance. They danced together, two foxtrots and a waltz, then left.

‘After all,’ said Fleur, in the taxi, ‘dancing makes you forget yourself. That was the beauty of the canteen. Find me another job, Michael; I can bring Kit back in about a week.’

‘How about joint secretaryship with me of our Slum Conversion Fund? You’d be invaluable to get up balls, bazaars, and matinées.’

‘I wouldn’t mind. I suppose they’re worth converting.’

‘Well, I think so. You don’t know Hilary; I must get him and Aunt May to lunch; after that you can judge for yourself.’

He slipped his hand under her bare arm, and added: ‘Fleur, you’re not quite tired of me, are you?’

The tone of his voice, humble and a little anxious, touched her, and she pressed his hand with her arm.

‘I should never be tired of you, Michael.’

‘You mean you’d never have a feeling so definite towards me.’

It was easily what she had meant, and she hastened to deny it.

‘No, dear boy; I mean I know a good thing, and even a good person, when I’ve got it.’

Michael sighed, and, taking up her hand, put it to his lips.

‘I wish,’ cried Fleur, ‘one wasn’t so complex. You’re lucky to be so single-hearted. It’s the greatest gift. Only, don’t ever become serious, Michael. That’d be a misfortune.’

‘No; after all, comedy’s the real thing.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Fleur, as the taxi stopped. ‘Delicious night!’

And Michael, having paid the driver, looked at her lighted up in the open doorway. Delicious night! Yes – for him.





Chapter Thirteen



‘ALWAYS!’



THE announcement by Michael on the following Monday that Fleur would be bringing Kit home the next morning, caused Soames to say:

‘I’d like to have a look at that part of the world. I’ll take the car down this afternoon and drive them up tomorrow. Don’t say anything to Fleur. I’ll let her know when I get down to Nettlefold. There’s an hotel there, I’m told.’

‘Quite a good one,’ said Michael. ‘But it’ll be full for Good-wood.’

‘I’ll telephone. They must find a room for me.’

He did, and they found for him a room which somebody else lost. He started about five – Riggs having informed him that it was a two-and-a-half hours’ drive. The day had been somewhat English in character, but by the time he reached Dorking had become fine enough to enjoy. He had seen little of the England that lay beyond the straight line between his river home and Westminster for many years; and this late afternoon, less preoccupied than usual, he was able to give it a somewhat detached consideration. It was certainly a variegated and bumpy land, incorrigibly green and unlike India, Canada and Japan. They said it had been jungle, heath and marsh not fifteen hundred years ago. What would it be fifteen hundred years hence? Jungle, heath and marsh again, or one large suburb – who could say? He had read somewhere that people would live underground, and come up to take the air in their flying machines on Sundays. He thought it was unlikely. The English would still want their windows down and a thorough draught, and so far as he could see, it would always be stuffy to play with a ball underground and impossible to play with a ball up in the air. Those fellows who wrote prophetic articles and books were always forgetting that people had passions. He would make a bet that the passions of the English in 3400 A.D. would still be: playing golf, cursing the weather, sitting in draughts, and revising the Prayer Book.