The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(3)

When those three came in she was sitting before a red lacquer tea-table, finishing a very good tea. She always had tea brought in rather early, so that she could have a good quiet preliminary ‘tuck-in’ all by herself, because she was not quite twenty-one, and this was her hour for remembering her youth. By her side Ting-a-ling was standing on his hind feet, his tawny forepaws on a Chinese foot-stool, his snubbed black and tawny muzzle turned up towards the fruits of his philosophy.

‘That’ll do, Ting. No more, ducky! No more!’

The expression of Ting-a-ling answered:

‘Well, then, stop, too! Don’t subject me to torture!’

A year and three months old, he had been bought by Michael out of a Bond Street shop window on Fleur’s twentieth birthday, eleven months ago.

Two years of married life had not lengthened her short dark chestnut hair; had added a little more decision to her quick lips, a little more allurement to her white-lidded, dark-lashed hazel eyes, a little more poise and swing to her carriage, a little more chest and hip measurement; had taken a little from waist and calf measurement, a little colour from cheeks a little less round, and a little sweetness from a voice a little more caressing.

She stood up behind the tray, holding out her white round arms without a word. She avoided unnecessary greetings or farewells. She would have had to say them so often, and their purpose was better served by look, pressure, and slight inclination of head to one side.

With a circular movement of her squeezed hand, she said:

‘Draw up. Cream, sir? Sugar, Wilfrid? Ting has had too much – don’t feed him! Hand things, Michael. I’ve heard all about the meeting at “Snooks”. You’re not going to canvass for Labour, Michael – canvassing’s so silly. If anyone canvassed me, I should vote the other way at once.’

‘Yes, darling; but you’re not the average elector.’

Fleur looked at him. Very sweetly put! Conscious of Wilfrid biting his lips, of Sir Lawrence taking that in, of the amount of silk leg she was showing, of her black and cream teacups, she adjusted these matters. A flutter of her white lids – Desert ceased to bite his lips; a movement of her silk legs – Sir Lawrence ceased to look at him. Holding out her cups, she said:

‘I suppose I’m not modern enough?’

Desert, moving a bright little spoon round in his magpie cup, said without looking up:

‘As much more modern than the moderns, as you are more ancient.’

‘’Ware poetry!’ said Michael.

But when he had taken his father to see the new cartoons by Aubrey Greene, she said:

‘Kindly tell me what you meant, Wilfrid.’

Desert’s voice seemed to leap from restraint.

‘What does it matter? I don’t want to waste time with that.’

‘But I want to know. It sounded like a sneer.’

‘A sneer? From me? Fleur!’

‘Then tell me.’

‘I meant that you have all their restlessness and practical getthereness; but you have what they haven’t, Fleur – power to turn one’s head. And mine is turned. You know it.’

‘How would Michael like that – from you, his best man?’

Desert moved quickly to the windows.

Fleur took Ting-a-ling on her lap. Such things had been said to her before; but from Wilfrid it was serious. Nice to think she had his heart, of course! Only, where on earth could she put it, where it wouldn’t be seen except by her? He was incalculable – did strange things! She was a little afraid – not of him, but of that quality in him. He came back to the hearth, and said:

‘Ugly, isn’t it? Put that damn’ dog down, Fleur; I can’t see your face. If you were really fond of Michael – I swear I wouldn’t; but you’re not, you know.’

Fleur said coldly:

‘You know very little; I am fond of Michael.’

Desert gave his little jerky laugh.

‘Oh yes; not the sort that counts.’

Fleur looked up.

‘It counts quite enough to make one safe.’

‘A flower that I can’t pick.’

Fleur nodded.

‘Quite sure, Fleur? Quite, quite sure?’

Fleur stared; her eyes softened a little, her eyelids, so excessively white, drooped over them; she nodded. Desert said slowly:

‘The moment I believe that, I shall go East.’

‘East?’

‘Not so stale as going West, but much the same – you don’t come back.’

Fleur thought: ‘The East? I should love to know the East! Pity one can’t manage that, too. Pity!’

‘You won’t keep me in your Zoo, my dear. I shan’t hang around and feed on crumbs. You know what I feel – it means a smash of some sort.’