The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(93)
‘It should be just a fortnight.’
‘Do you believe in this – this twilight sleep?’
‘I should like to,’ said Michael, conscious again of sweat on his forehead. ‘Fleur’s wonderfully calm; she does Coué night and morning.’
‘That!’ said Soames. He did not mention that he himself was doing it, thus giving away the state of his nerves. ‘If you’re going home, I’ll come, too.’
‘Good!’
He found Fleur lying down with Ting-a-ling on the foot of the sofa.
‘Your father’s here, darling. He’s been anointing the future with another fifty thou. I expect he’d like to tell you all about it.’
Fleur moved restlessly.
‘Presently. If it’s going on as hot as this, it’ll be rather a bore, Michael.’
‘Oh! but it won’t, ducky. Three days and a thunder-storm.’
Taking Ting-a-ling by the chin, he turned his face up.
‘And how on earth is your nose going to be put out of joint, old man? There’s no joint to put.’
‘He knows there’s something up.’
‘He’s a wise little brute, aren’t you, old son?’
Ting-a-ling sniffed.
‘Michael!’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘I don’t seem to care about anything now – it’s a funny feeling.’
‘That’s the heat.’
‘No. I think it’s because the whole business is too long. Every thing’s ready, and now it all seems rather stupid. One more person in the world or one more out of it – what does it matter?’
‘Don’t! It matters frightfully!’
‘One more gnat to dance, one more ant to run about!’
Anguished, Michael said again:
‘Don’t, Fleur! That’s just a mood.’
‘Is Wilfrid’s book out?’
‘It comes out tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry I gave you such a bad time, there. I only didn’t want to lose him.’
Michael took her hand.
‘Nor did I – goodness knows!’ he said.
‘He’s never written, I suppose?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I expect he’s all right by now. Nothing lasts.’
Michael put her hand to his cheek.
‘I do, I’m afraid,’ he said.
The hand slipped round over his lips.
‘Give Dad my love, and tell him I’ll be down to tea. Oh! I’m so hot!’
Michael hovered a moment, and went out. Damn the heat, upsetting her like this!
He found Soames standing in front of the white monkey.
‘I should take this down, if I were you,’ he muttered, ‘until it’s over.’
‘Why, sir?’ asked Michael, in surprise.
Soames frowned.
‘Those eyes!’
Michael went up to the picture. Yes! He was a haunting kind of brute!
‘But it’s such top-hole work, sir.’
Soames nodded.
‘Artistically, yes. But at such times you can’t be too careful what she sees.’
‘I believe you’re right. Let’s have him down.’
‘I’ll hold him,’ said Soames, taking hold of the bottom of the picture.
‘Got him tight? Right-o. Now!’
‘You can say I wanted an opinion on his period,’ said Soames, when the picture had been lowered to the floor.
‘There can hardly be a doubt of that, sir – the present!’
Soames stared. ‘What? Oh! You mean –? Ah! H’m! Don’t let her know he’s in the house.’
‘No. I’ll lock him up.’ Michael lifted the picture. ‘D’you mind opening the door, sir?’
‘I’ll come back at tea-time,’ said Soames. ‘That’ll look as if I’d taken him off. You can hang him again, later.’
‘Yes. Poor brute!’ said Michael, bearing the monkey off to limbo.
Chapter Eleven
WITH A SMALL ‘n’
ON the night of the Monday following, after Fleur had gone to bed, Michael and Soames sat listening to the mutter of London coming through the windows of the Chinese room opened to the brooding heat.
‘They say the war killed sentiment,’ said Soames suddenly: ‘Is that true?’
‘In a way, yes, sir. We had so much reality that we don’t want any more.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘I meant that only reality really makes you feel. So if you pretend there is no reality, you don’t have to feel. It answers awfully well, up to a point.’
‘Ah!’ said Soames. ‘Her mother comes up tomorrow morning, to stay. This P.P.R.S. meeting of mine is at half-past two. Good night!’
Michael, at the window, watched the heat gathered black over the Square. A few tepid drops fell on his outstretched hand. A cat stole by under a lamp-post, and vanished into a shadow so thick that it seemed uncivilized.