The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(48)

‘Do you like your house?’

‘Oh, fearfully. Won’t you come and see it?’

‘I don’t know whether Fleur would –?’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh! Well!’

‘She’s frightfully accessible.’

She seemed to be looking at him with more interest than he deserved, to be trying to make something out from his face, and he added:

‘You’re a relation – by blood as well as marriage, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what’s the skeleton?’

‘Oh! nothing. I’ll certainly come. Only – she has so many friends.’

Michael thought: ‘I like this woman!’ ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I came here this afternoon thinking I might find Fleur. I should like her to know you. With all the jazz there is about, she’d appreciate somebody restful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’ve never lived in London?’

‘Not since I was six.’

‘I wish she could get a rest – pity there isn’t a d-desert handy.’ He had stuttered; the word was not pronounced the same – still! He glanced, disconcerted, at the butterflies. ‘I’ve just been talking to a little Cockney whose S.O.S. is “Central Austrylia”. But what do you say – Have we got souls to save?’

‘I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure – something’s struck me lately.’

‘What was that?’

‘Well, I notice that anyone at all out of proportion, or whose nose is on one side, or whose eyes jut out, or even have a special shining look, always believes in the soul; people who are in proportion, and have no prominent physical features, don’t seem to be really interested.’

Michael’s ears moved.

‘By Jove!’ he said; ‘some thought! Fleur’s beautifully proportioned – she doesn’t seem to worry. I’m not – and I certainly do. The people in Covent Garden must have lots of soul. You think “the soul’s” the result of loose-gearing in the organism – sort of special consciousness from not working in one piece.’

‘Yes, rather like that – what’s called psychic power is, I’m almost sure.’

‘I say, is your life safe? According to your theory, though, we’re in a mighty soulful era. I must think over my family. How about yours?’

‘The Forsytes! Oh, they’re quite too well-proportioned.’

‘I agree, they haven’t any special juts so far as I’ve seen. The French, too, are awfully close-knit. It really is an idea, only, of course, most people see it the other way. They’d say the soul produces the disproportion, makes the eyes shine, bends the nose, and all that; where the soul is small, it’s not trying to get out of the body, whence the barber’s block. I’ll think about it. Thanks for the tip. Well, do come and see us. Good-bye! I don’t think I’ll disturb them in the window. Would you mind saying I had to scoot?’ Squeezing a slim, gloved hand, receiving and returning a smiling look, he slid out, thinking: ‘Dash the soul, where’s her body?’





Chapter Four



FLEUR’S BODY



FLEUR’s body, indeed, was at the moment in one of those difficult positions which continually threaten the spirit of compromise. It was in fact in Wilfrid’s arms; sufficiently, at least, to make her say:

‘No, Wilfrid – you promised to be good.’

It was a really remarkable tribute to her powers of skating on thin ice that the word ‘good’ should still have significance. For eleven weeks exactly this young man had danced on the edge of fulfilment, and was even now divided from her by two clenched hands pressed firmly against his chest, and the word ‘good’; and this after not having seen her for a fortnight.

When she said it, he let her go, with a sort of violence, and sat down on a piece of junk. Only the sense of damnable iteration prevented him from saying: ‘It can’t go on, Fleur.’ She knew that! And yet it did! This was what perpetually amazed him. How a poor brute could hang on week after week saying to her and to himself: ‘Now or never!’ when it wasn’t either? Subconsciousness, that, until the word ‘now’ had been reached, Fleur would not know her own mind, alone had kept him dancing. His own feelings were so intense that he almost hated her for indecision. And he was unjust. It was not exactly indecision. Fleur wanted the added richness and excitement which Wilfrid’s affection gave to life, but without danger and without loss. How natural! His frightful passionateness was making all the trouble. Neither by her wish, nor through her fault, was he passionate! And yet – it was both nice and proper to inspire passion; and, of course, she had the lurking sense that she was not ‘in the mode’ to cavil at a lover, especially since life owed her one.