The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(257)

‘Has there ever before been such a violent break as just lately?’

‘There’s never before been such a violent break in the way people look at life; nor such complete confusion in the minds of artists as to what they exist for.’

‘And what do they exist for, Uncle?’

‘To give pleasure or reveal truth, or both.’

‘I can’t imagine myself enjoying what they enjoy, and – what is truth?’

Adrian turned up his thumbs.

‘Dinny, I’m tired as a dog. Let’s slip out.’

Dinny saw her sister and young Croom passing through the archway. She was not sure whether Clare had noticed them, and young Croom was clearly noticing nothing but Clare. She followed Adrian out, in her turn admiring his discretion. But neither of them would admit uneasiness. With whom one went about was now so entirely one’s own business.

They had walked up the Burlington Arcade, when Adrian was suddenly startled by the pallor of her face.

‘What’s the matter, Dinny? You look like a ghost!’

‘If you don’t mind, Uncle, I’d like a cup of coffee.’

‘There’s a place in Bond Street.’ Scared by the bloodlessness of her smiling lips, he held her arm firmly till they were seated at a little table round the corner.

‘Two coffees – extra strong,’ said Adrian, and with that instinctive consideration which caused women and children to confide in him, he made no attempt to gain her confidence.

‘Nothing so tiring as picture-gazing. I’m sorry to emulate Em and suspect you of not eating enough, my dear. That sort of sparrow-pecking we did before going in doesn’t really count.’ But colour had come back to her lips.

‘I’m very tough, Uncle; but food is rather a bore.’

‘You and I must go a little tour in France. Their grub can move one’s senses if their pictures can’t move one’s spirit.’

‘Did you feel that?’

‘Compared with the Italian – emphatically. It’s all so beautifully thought out. They make their pictures like watches. Perfectly art-conscious and thorough workmen. Unreasonable to ask for more, and yet – perhaps fundamentally unpoetic. And that reminds me, Dinny, I do hope Clare can be kept out of the Divorce Court, for of all unpoetic places that is IT.’

Dinny shook her head.

‘I’d rather she got it over. I even think she was wrong to promise. She’s not going to change her mind about Jerry. She’ll be like a bird with one leg. Besides, who thinks the worse of you nowadays!’

Adrian moved uncomfortably.

‘I dislike the thought of those hard-boiled fellows playing battledore with my kith and kin. If they were like Dornford – but they aren’t. Seen anything more of him?’

‘He was down with us for one night when he had to speak.’

He noticed that she spoke without ‘batting an eyelid’, as the young men called it nowadays. And, soon after, they parted, Dinny assuring him that she had ‘come over quite well again’.

He had said that she looked like a ghost; he might better have said she looked as if she had seen one. For, coming out of that Arcade, all her past in Cork Street had come fluttering like some lonely magpie towards her, beaten wings in her face and swerved away. And now, alone, she turned and walked back there. Resolutely she went to the door, climbed the stairs to Wilfrid’s rooms, and rang the bell. Leaning against the window-sill on the landing, she waited with clasped hands, thinking: ‘I wish I had a muff!’ Her hands felt so cold. In old pictures they stood with veils down and their hands in muffs; but ‘the old order changeth,’ and she had none. She was just going away when the door was opened. Stack! In slippers! His glance, dark and prominent as ever, fell to those slippers and his demeanour seemed to stammer.

‘Pardon me, miss, I was just going to change ’em.’

Dinny held out her hand, and he took it with his old air, as if about to ‘confess’ her.

‘I was passing, and thought I’d like to ask how you were.’

‘Fine, thank you, miss! Hope you’ve been keeping well, and the dog?’

‘Quite well, both of us. Foch likes the country.’

‘Ah! Mr Desert always thought he was a country dog.’

‘Have you any news?’

‘Not to say news, miss. I understand from his bank that he’s still in Siam. They forward his letters to their branch in Bangkok. His lordship was here not long ago, and I understood him to say that Mr Desert was up river somewhere.’

‘A river!’

‘The name escapes me, something with a “Yi” in it, and a “sang” – was it? I believe it’s very ’ot there. If I may say so, miss, you haven’t much colour considering the country. I was down home in Barnstaple at Christmas, and it did me a power of good.’