‘No, no; something plain and solid that would hold about a gallon.’
‘Mr Bankwait – come here a minute. This gentleman wants an old-fashioned bowl.’
‘Yes, sir; I think we have the very thing.’
Soames uttered an indistinguishable sound.
‘There isn’t much demand for the old-fashioned bowl; but we have a very fine second-hand, that used to be in the Rexborough family.’
‘With arms on?’ said Soames. ‘That won’t do. It must be new, or free from arms, anyway.’
‘Ah! Then this will be what you want, sir.’
‘My Lord!’ said Soames; and raising his umbrella he pointed in the opposite direction. ‘What’s that thing?’
With a slightly chagrined air the shopman brought the article from its case.
Upon a swelling base, with a waist above, a silver bowl sprang generously forth. Soames flipped it with his finger.
‘Pure silver, sir; and, as you see, very delicate edging; not too bacchanalian in design; the best gilt within. I should say the very thing you want.’
‘It might do. What’s the price?’
The shopman examined a cabalistic sign.
‘Thirty-five pounds, sir.’
‘Quite enough,’ said Soames. Whether it would please old Gradman, he didn’t know, but the thing was in good taste, and would not do the family discredit. ‘I’ll have that, then,’ he said. ‘Engrave these words on it,’ and he wrote them down. ‘Send it to that address, and the account to me; and don’t be long about it.’
‘Very good sir. You wouldn’t like those goblets? – They’re perfect in their way.’
‘Nothing more!’ said Soames. ‘Good-evening!’ And, handing the shopman his card, with a cold circular glance, he went out. That was off his mind!
September sun sprinkled him, threading his way west along Piccadilly into the Green Park. These gentle autumn days were very pleasant. He didn’t get hot, and he didn’t feel cold. And the plane trees looked their best, just making up their minds to turn; nice trees, shapely. And, crossing the grassy spaces, Soames felt almost mellow. A rather more rapid step behind impinged on his consciousness. A voice said:
‘Ah! Forsyte! Bound for the meeting at Michael’s? Might we go along together?’
Old Mont, perky and talkative as ever! There he went – off at once!
‘What’s your view of all these London changes, Forsyte? You remember the peg-top trouser, and the crinoline – Leech in his prime – Old Pam on his horse – September makes one reminiscent.’
‘It’s all on the surface,’ said Soames.
‘On the surface? I sometimes have that feeling. But there is a real change. It’s the difference between the Austen and Trollope novels and these modern fellows. There are no parishes left. Classes? Yes, but divided by man, not by God, as in Trollope’s day.’
Soames sniffed. The chap was always putting things in that sort of way!
‘At the rate we’re going, they’ll soon not be divided at all,’ he said.
‘I think you’re wrong there, Forsyte. I should never be surprised to see the horse come back.’
‘The horse,’ muttered Soames; ‘what’s he got to do with it?’
‘What we must look for,’ said Sir Lawrence, swinging his cane, ‘is the millennium. Then we shall soon be developing individuality again. And the millennium’s nearly here.’
‘I don’t in the least follow you,’ said Soames.
‘Education’s free; women have the vote; even the workman has or soon will have his car; the slums are doomed – thanks to you, Forsyte; amusement and news are in every home; the Liberal Party’s up the spout; Free Trade’s a movable feast; sport’s cheap and plentiful; dogma’s got the knock; so has the General Strike; Boy Scouts are increasing rapidly; dress is comfortable; and hair is short – it’s all millennial.’
‘What’s all that got to do with the horse?’
‘A symbol, my dear Forsyte. It’s impossible to standardize or socialize the horse. We’re beginning to react against uniformity. A little more millennium and we shall soon be cultivating our souls and driving tandem again.’
‘What’s that noise?’ said Soames. ‘Sounds like a person in distress.’
Sir Lawrence cocked his eyebrow.
‘It’s a vacuum cleaner, in Buckingham Palace. Very human things those.’
Soames grunted – the fellow couldn’t be serious! Well! He might have to be before long. If Fleur –! But he would not contemplate that ‘if’.
‘What I admire about the Englishman,’ said Sir Lawrence suddenly, ‘is his evolutionary character. He flows and ebbs, and flows again. Foreigners may think him a stick-in-the-mud, but he’s got continuity – a great quality, Forsyte. What are you going to do with your pictures when you take the ferry? Leave them to the nation?’