The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(95)

‘Only that it’s not natural. I want to do it properly. Hold my hand hard, Michael. I – I’m not going to be a fool. Oh! Someone’s knocking – go and see.’

Michael opened the door a crack. Soames was there – unnatural – in a blue dressing-gown and scarlet slippers!

‘Is she all right?’ he whispered.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘In this bobbery she oughtn’t to be left.’

‘No, sir, of course not. I shall sleep on the sofa.’

‘Call me, if anything’s wanted.’

‘I will.’

Soames’s eyes slid past, peering into the room. A string worked in his throat, as if he had things to say which did not emerge. He shook his head, and turned. His slim figure, longer than usual, in its gown, receded down the corridor, past the Japanese prints which he had given them. Closing the door again, Michael stood looking at the bed. Fleur had settled down; her eyes were closed, her lips moving. He stole back on tiptoe. The thunder, travelling away south, blundered and growled as if regretfully. Michael saw her eyelids quiver, her lips stop, then move again. ‘Coué!’ he thought.

He lay down on the sofa at the foot of the bed, whence, without sound, he could raise himself and see her. Many times he raised himself. She had dropped off, was breathing quietly. The thunder was faint now, the flashes imperceptible. Michael closed his eyes.

A faint last mutter roused him to look at her once more, high on her pillows by the carefully shaded light. Young – young! Colourless, like a flower in wax! No scheme in her brain, no dread – peaceful! If only she could stay like that and wake up with it all over! He looked away. And there she was at the far end, dim, reflected in a glass; and there to the right, again. She lay, as it were, all round him in the pretty room, the inhabiting spirit – of his heart.

It was quite still now. Through a chink in those powder-blue curtains he could see some stars. Big Ben chimed one.

He had slept, perhaps, dozed at least, dreamed a little. A small sound woke him. A very little dog, tail down, yellow, low and unimportant, was passing down the room, trailing across it to the far corner. ‘Ah!’ thought Michael, closing his eyes again: ‘You!’





Chapter Twelve



ORDEAL BY SHAREHOLDER



REPAIRING, next day, to the Aeroplane Club, where, notably spruce, Sir Lawrence was waiting in the lounge, Michael thought: ‘Good old Bart! he’s got himself up for the guillotine all right!’

‘That white piping will show the blood!’ he said. ‘Old Forsyte’s neat this morning, but not so gaudy.’

‘Ah! How is “Old Forsyte”? In good heart?’

‘One doesn’t ask him, sir. How do you feel yourself?’

‘Exactly as I used to before the Eton and Winchester match. I think I shall have shandy-gaff at lunch.’

When they had taken their seats, Sir Lawrence went on:

‘I remember seeing a man tried for murder in Colombo; the poor fellow was positively blue. I think my favourite moment in the past, Michael, is Walter Raleigh asking for a second shirt. By the way, it’s never been properly settled yet whether the courtiers of that day were lousy. What are you going to have, my dear fellow?’

‘Cold beef, pickled walnuts, and gooseberry-tart.’

‘Excellent for the character. I shall have curry; they give you a very good Bombay duck here. I rather fancy we shall be fired, Michael. “Nous sommes trahis!” used to be the prerogative of the French, but I’m afraid we’re getting the attitude, too. The Yellow Press has made a difference.’

Michael shook his head.

‘We say it, but we don’t act on it; the climate’s too uncertain.’

‘That sounds deep. This looks very good curry – will you change your mind? Old Fontenoy sometimes comes in here; he has no inside. It’ll be serious for him if we’re shown the door.’

‘Deuced rum,’ said Michael suddenly, ‘how titles still go down. There can’t be any belief in their business capacity.’

‘Character, my dear fellow – the good old English gentleman. After all, there’s something in it.’

‘I fancy, sir, it’s more a case of complex in the shareholders. Their parents show them a lord when they’re young.’

‘Shareholders,’ said Sir Lawrence; ‘the word is comprehensive. Who are they, what are they, when are they?’

‘This afternoon,’ said Michael, ‘and I shall have a good look at them.’

‘They won’t let you in, my dear.’

‘No?’

‘Certainly not.’

Michael frowned.

‘What paper,’ he said, ‘is sure not to be represented?’