 CHAPTER III. Youth only recognizes age by fits and starts. John for one had never really seen his father's age till he came back from Spain. The face of the fourth jollion, worn by waiting, gave him quite a shock. It looked so worn and old. His father's mask had been forced to rye by the emotion of the meeting, so that the boy suddenly realized how much he must have felt their absence. He summoned to his aid the thought, Well, I didn't want to go. It was out of date for youth to defer to age, but John was by no means typically modern. His father had always been so jolly to him, and a feel that one meant to begin again at once the conduct which his father had suffered six weeks loneliness to cure was not agreeable. At the question, Well, old man, how did the great Goya strike you? His conscience pricked him badly. The great Goya only existed because he had created a face which resembled flurs. On the night of their return he went to bed full of compunction, but awoke full of anticipation. He was only the fifth of July, and no meeting was fixed with Fleur until the ninth. He was to have a three days at home before going back to farm. Somehow he must contrive to see her. In the lives of men, an inexorable rhythm caused by the need for trousers, not even the fondest parents can deny. On the second day, therefore, John went to town, and having satisfied his conscience by ordering what was indispensable in Condwitt Street, turned his face towards Piccadilly. Down Bond Street, where her club was, adjoined Devonshire House, it would be the merest chance that she should be at her club. But he dawdled down Bond Street with a beating heart, noticing the superiority of all other young men to himself. They wore their clothes with such an air they had assurance they were old. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the conviction that Fleur must have forgotten him. But in his own feeling for all his weeks he had mislaid that possibility. The corners of his mouth drooped, his hands felt clammy. Fleur, with the pick of youth at the back of her smile, Fleur incomparable. It was an evil moment. John, however, had a great idea that one must be able to face anything, and he braced himself with that duer reflection in front of a brick-a-brack shop. At this high-water mark of what was once the London season there was nothing to mark it out from any other, except a grey top hat or two, and the sun. John moved on, and turned the corner into Piccadilly, ran into Val d'Arty, moving towards the ICM club, to whom he had just been elected. Hello, young man, where are you off to? John gushed. I've just been to my tailor's. Val looked up and down. That's good. I'm going in here to order some cigarettes, then come and have some lunch. John thanked him. He might get news of her from Val. The condition of England, that nightmare of its press and public men, was seen in different perspective within the tobacco-ness which they now entered. Yes, sir, precisely the cigarette I used to supply your father with. Bless me. Mr. Montague d'Arty was a customer here from—let me see—the year Melton won the Derby. One of my very best customers he was. A faint smile illumined the tobacco-ness's face. Many of the tippies given me to be sure. I suppose he took a couple of hundred of these every week, year in, year out, and never changed his cigarette. Very affable gentleman, bought me a lot of custom. I was sorry he met with that accent. What misses an old customer like him? Val smiled. His father's decease had closed an account which had been running longer, probably, than any other. And in a ring of smoke puffed out from that time-honoured cigarette, he seemed to see again his father's face, dark, good-looking, bestaciode, a little puffy. In the only halo it had earned. His father had his fame here, anyway. A man who spoke two hundred cigarettes a week, who could give tips and run accounts forever, to his tobacco-nister hero. Even that was some distinction to inherit. I pay cash, he said, how much? To his son, sir, and cash ten and six. I shall never forget Mr. Montague-Darty. I've known him stand talking to me half an hour. We don't get many like him now, with everybody in such a hurry. The war was bad for manners, sir. It was bad for manners. Are you in it, I see? No, said Val, tapping his knee. I got this in the war before, save my life, I expect. Do you want any cigarettes, John?" Rather ashamed, John murmured, I don't smoke, you know, and saw the tobacco-nist's lips twisted, as if uncertain whether to say, Good God, or now's your chance, sir. That's right, said Val, keep off it what you can, you want it when you take a knock. This is really the same tobacco, then. Identical, sir, little dearer, that's all. Wonderful staying-power, the British Empire, I always say. Send me down a hundred a week to this address, and invoice it monthly. Come on, John. John entered the ICM with curiosity. Except to lunch now and then at the hotch-potch with his father, he had never been in a London club. The ICM, comfortable and unpretentious, did not move, could not, so long as George Fawcite sat on its committee, where his culinarily acumen was almost the controlling force. The club had made a stand against the newly rich, and it had taken all George Fawcite's prestige and praise of him as a good sportsman, to bring in prospero-preformed. The two were lunging together when the half-brothers-in-law entered the dining-room, and attracted by George's forefinger, sat down at their table, Val with his shrewd eyes and charming smile, John with solemn lips and an attractive shyness in his glance. There was an air of privilege around that corner-table, as though past masters were eating there. John was fascinated by the hypnotic atmosphere. The waiter, leading in the chaps, pervaded with such freemasonical deference. He seemed to hang on George Fawcite's lips to watch the gloat in his eye with a kind of sympathy, to follow the movements of the heavy club-marked silver fondly. His liver-at-arm and confidential voice alarmed John. They came so secretly over his shoulder. Except for George's, your grandfather tipped me once, he was a deuce-good judge of a cigar. Neither he nor the other past master took any notice of him, and he was grateful for this. The talk was all about the breeding-points and prices of horses, and it is listened to it vaguely at first, wondering how it was possible to impotence so much knowledge and a head. He could not take his eyes off the dark past master. But he said it was so deliberate and discouraging. Such heavy, queer, smiled-out words. John was thinking of butterflies when he heard him say, I want to see Mr. Sorms Fawcite take an interest in horses. Hold, Sorms, he's too dry a file. With all his might John tried not to grow red, while the dark past master went on. His daughter is an attractive, small girl. Mr. Sorms Fawcite is a bit old-fashioned. I want to see him have a pleasure some day. George Fawcite grinned. Don't you worry, he's not so miserable as he looks. He'll never show he's enjoying anything. They might try and take it from him. Hold, Soms, once bit, twice shy. Well, John, said Val hastily, if you finish, we'll go and have some coffee. Who were those? John asked on the stairs. I didn't quite— Old George Fawcite is the first cousin of your father's and of my uncle Soms. He's always been here. The other chap, profaned, is a queer fish. I think he's hanging round Soms's wife, if you ask me. John looked at him startle. But that's awful, he said. I mean, for Fleur. Don't suppose Fleur cares very much, she's very up to date. A mother? You're very green, John. John grew red. Mothers, he stammered angrily, are different. You're right, said Val, suddenly, but things aren't what they were when I was your age. There's a—tomorrow we die, feeding. That's what Old George meant about my uncle Soms. He doesn't mean to die tomorrow. John said quickly, what's the matter between him and my father? Stable secret, John. I'd like my advice and bottle up. You'll do no good by knowing. Have a liqueur." John took his head. I hate the way people keep things from one, he muttered, and then sneered one for being green. Well, you can ask Holly. If she won't tell you, you'll believe it's for your own good, I suppose. John got up. I must go now. Thanks awfully for the lunch. Val smiled up at him. Off sorry, and yet amused. The boy looks so upset. All right, see you on Friday. I don't know, murmured John. And he did not. This conspiracy of silence made him desperate. It was humiliating to be treated like a child. He retraced his moody steps to Stratton Street. But he would go to her club now and find out the worst. To his inquiry the reply was that Miss Forsight was not in the club. She might be in perhaps later. She was often in on Monday, they could not say. John said he would call again, and, crossing into the green park, flung himself down under a tree. The summer's bright, and a free breeze fluttered the leaves of the young lime tree beneath which she lay, but his heart ached. Such darkness seemed gathered round his happiness. He heard Big Ben chime three above the traffic. The sound moved something in him, and taking out a piece of paper he began to scribble on it with a pencil. He jotted a stanza, and was searching the grass for another verse, when something hard touched his shoulder, a green parasol. There above him stood Fleur. They told me you'd been, and were coming back, so I thought you might be out here, and you are. It's rather wonderful. Oh, Fleur, I thought you'd forgotten me. When I told you that I shouldn't. John seized her arm. It's too much luck. Let's get away from this side. He almost dragged her on through that too thoughtfully regulated park to find some cover where they could sit and hold each other's hands. "'Hasn't anybody cut in?' he said, gazing round at her lashes in suspense above her cheeks. There is a young idiot, but he doesn't count.' John felt a twitch of compassion for the young idiot. "'You know, I've had sunstroke. I didn't tell you.' "'Really? Was it interesting? No, mother was an angel. Has anything happened to you?' "'Nothing. Except that I think I've found out what's wrong between our families, John.' His hark began beating very fast. I believe my father wanted to marry your mother, and your father got her instead. "'Oh!' I came on a photo of her. It was in a frame behind a photo of me. Of course, he, V, was very fond of her. That would have made him pretty mad, wouldn't it?' John thought for a moment. Not if she loved my father best. But suppose they were engaged. If we were engaged, and you found you's loved somebody better, I might go cracked. But I shouldn't grunge at you.' "'You should. You mustn't ever do that to me, John.' "'My God! Not much. I don't believe that he's ever really cared for my mother.' John was silent. Val's words. The two passed masters in the club. "'You see, we don't know,' went on Fleur. "'It may have been a great shock. She may have behaved badly to him. People do.' "'My mother wouldn't.' Fleur shrugged her shoulders. "'I don't think we know much about our fathers and mothers. We just see them in the light of the way they treat us. But they've treated other people, you know, before we were born. Plenty, I expect. You see, they're both old. Look at your father with three separate families. "'Isn't there any place,' cried John, "'in all this beastly London where we can be alone?' "'Only a taxi. Let's get one, then.' When they were installed, Fleur asked suddenly, "'Are you going back to Robin Hill? I should like to see where you live, John. I'm staying with my aunt for the night, but I could get back in time for dinner. I wouldn't come to the house, of course.' John gazed at her, enraptured. "'Splendid, I can show it to you from the cops. We shan't meet anybody. There's a train at four.' The god of property and his foresight's great and small, leisured, official, commercial or professional, like the working classes, still worked there seven hours a day. So that those two of the fourth generation travelled down to Robin Hill in an empty first-class carriage, dusty and sun-warmed, of that too early train. They travelled in blissful silence. Holding each other's hands. At the station they saw no one except porters and a villager or two, unknown to John, and walked out up the lane, which smelled of dust and honeysuckle. For John, sure of her now, and without separation before him, it was a miraculous dawdle, more wonderful than those on the Downs or along the River Thames. It was love and a mist, one of those illumined pages of life, where every word and smile and every light touch they gave each other, were as little gold and red and blue butterflies and flowers and birds scrolled in among the text, a happy commuting, without afterthought, which lasted thirty-seven minutes. They reached the coppice at the milking-hour. John would not take her as far as the farmyard, only to where she could see the field leading up to the gardens and the house beyond. They turned in among the larches and suddenly, at the whining of the path, came on Irene, sitting on an old log-seat. There are various kinds of shocks, to the vertebrae, to the nerves, to moral sensibility, and more potent and permanent, to personal dignity. This last was the shock John received coming thus on his mother. He became suddenly conscious that he was doing an indelicate thing. To have brought Fleur down openly, yes, but to sneak her in like this. Consumed with shame, he put on a front as brazen as his nature would permit. Fleur was smiling a little defiantly. His mother's startled face was changing quickly to the impersonal and gracious. It was she who uttered the first words. I am very glad to see you. It was nice of John to think of bringing you down to us. We weren't coming to the house. John blurted out, I just wanted Fleur to see where I lived. His mother said quietly, Won't you come up and have tea? Feeling that he had but aggravated his breach of breeding, he heard Fleur answer. Thanks very much. I have to get back to dinner. I met John by accident, and we thought it would be rather jolly, just to see his home. How self-possessed she was. Of course, but you must have tea. We'll send you down to the station. My husband will enjoy seeing you. The expression of his mother's eyes resting on him for a moment cast John down level with the ground, a true worm. Then she led on, and Fleur followed her. He felt like a child trailing after those two, who were talking so easily about Spain and Wansden and the house up there beyond the trees and the drassy slope. He watched the fencing of their eyes taking each other in, the two beings he loved most in the world. He could see his father sitting under the oak tree, and suffered in advance all the loss of cast he must go through in the eyes of that tranquil figure with his knees crossed, thin, old, and elegant. Suddenly he could feel the faint irony which would come into his voice and smile. This is Fleur foresight, Jolian. John brought her down to see the house. Let's have tea at once. She has to catch a train. John, tell them, dear, and telephone to the dragon for a car. To leave her alone with them was strange. And yet, as no doubt his mother had foreseen, the least of evils at the moment. So he ran up into the house. Now he would not see Fleur alone again, not for a minute, and they had arranged no further meeting. When he returned under cover of the maids and teapots, there was not a trace of awkwardness beneath the tree. He was all within himself, but not the less for that. They were talking of the gallery off Cork Street. We, back numbers, his father was saying, are awfully anxious to find out why we can't appreciate the new stuff. You and John must tell us. It's supposed to be Satiric, isn't it?" said Fleur. He saw his father's smile. Oh, Satiric, I think it's more than that. What do you say, John? I don't know at all, stammered John. His father's face had a sudden grimness. The young atard of us are gods and are ideals. If we're their heads, they say, smash their idols, and let's get back to nothing. And by Jove they've done it. John's a poet. He'll be going in too, and stamping on what's left of us—property, beauty, sentiment, all smoke. We mustn't own anything nowadays, not even our feelings. They stand in the way of nothing. John listened, bewildered, almost outraged by his father's words, behind which he felt a meaning that he could not reach. He didn't want to stamp on anything. Nothing's the God of today, continued Johnian. We're back where the Russians were sixty years ago when they started nihilism. No, Dad! cried John, suddenly, we only want to live, and we don't know how, because of the past. That's all. My George! said Johnian, that's profound, John, it's your own, the past—whole ownership's, old passions, and their aftermaths. Ha! Let's have cigarettes! Conscious that his mother had lifted her hand to her lips quickly, as if to hush something, John handed the cigarettes. He lighted his father's and Fleur's, then one for himself. Had he taken the knock that Val had spoken of? The smoke was blue when he had not puffed gray when he had. He liked the sensation in his nose, and the sense of equality it gave him. He was glad no one said, so you've begun. He felt less young. Fleur looked at her watch, and rose. His mother went with her into the house. John stayed with his father, puffing at the cigarette. See her into the car, old man, said Johnian, and when she's gone, ask your mother to come back to me. John went. He waited in the hall. He saw her into the car. There was no chance for any word, hardly for a pressure of the hand. He waited all that evening for something to be said to him. Nothing was said. Nothing might have happened. He went up to bed, and in the mirror on his dressing-table met himself. He did not speak, nor did the image, but both looked as if they thought the more. End of Part 2, Chapter 3, Recording by Simon Evers. Part 2, Chapter 4, of Tollet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Simon Evers. The Foresight Saga 3. Tollet by John Gulsworthy. Part 2, Chapter 4, in Green Street. Uncertain whether the impression that Prosper performed was dangerous should be traced to his attempt to give Val the Mayfly Philly. To a remark of Fleurs, he's like the hosts of Midian he prowls and prowls around. To his preposterous inquiry of Jack the Cardigan, what's the use of keeping fit? Or more simply to the fact that he was a foreigner, or alien, as it was now called. Certain that Annette was looking particularly hamsome, and that Somes had sold him a go-gang and then torn up the cheque. So the Musia performed himself at said, I didn't go to that small picture I bought from Mr. Forside. However suspiciously regarded, he still frequented Winifred's evergreen little house in Green Street with a good-natured obtuse-ness which no one bestook for naivety, a word hardly applicable to Mr. Prosper performed. Winifred still found him amusing, and would write him little notes saying, Come and have a jolly with us. It was breath of life to her to keep up with the phrases of the day. The mystery with which all felt him to be surrounded was due to his having done, seen, heard, and known everything, and found nothing in it, which was unnatural. The English type of disillusionment was familiar enough to Winifred, who had always moved in fashionable circles. It gave a certain cachet or distinction, so that one got something out of it. But to see nothing in anything, not as a pose, but because there was nothing in anything, was not English, and that, which was not English, one could not help secretly feeling dangerous, if not precisely bad form. It was like having the mood which the wall had left, seated, dark, heavy, smiling, indifferent, in your empire chair. It was like listening to that mood talking through thick pink lips above a little diabolic beard. It was, as Jack Cardigan expressed it, for the English character at large, a bit too thick, for if nothing was really worth getting excited about, there were always games, and one could make it so. Even Winifred, ever a foresight at heart, felt that there was nothing to be had out of such a mood of disillusionment, so that it really ought not to be there. But she performed, in fact, made the mood too plain in a country which decently veiled such realities. When Fleur, after her hurried return from Robin Hill, came down to dinner that evening, the mood was standing at the window of Winifred's little drawing-room, looking out to Green Street, with an air of seeing nothing in it. And Fleur gazed promptly into the fireplace, with an air of seeing a fire which was not there, but she performed came from the window. He was in full fig, with a white waistcoat and a white flower in his buttonhole. "'Well, Miss Fawcide,' he said, "'I'm awfully pleased to see you.' "'And Mr. Fawcide, well? I was saying to-day, I wanted to see him have some pleasures. He worries.' "'You think so?' said Fleur shortly. "'Worries,' repeated Moussie-prophoned, burying the arse. Fleur spun round. "'Shall I tell you,' she said, what would give him pleasure?' But the words, to hear that you have cleared out, died at the expression on his face. All his fine white teeth were shewing. "'I was hearing at the club to-day about his old trouble,' Fleur opened her eyes. "'What do you mean?' Moussie-prophoned moved his sleek head, as if to minimise his statement. "'Before you were born,' he said, "'that small a business.' Though conscious that he had cleverly diverted her from his own share in her father's worry, Fleur was unable to withstand a rush of nervous curiosity. "'Tell me what you heard.' "'Why?' murmured Moussie-prophoned. "'You know all that.' "'I expect I do, but I should like to know that you haven't heard it all wrong.' "'Is first wave,' murmured Moussie-prophoned. Looking back the words, he was never married before,' she said, "'Well, what about her?' Mr. George Forside was telling me about your father's first wife, Mary, and his cousin Jolien, afterward. It was a small bit unpleasant, I should think. I saw their boy, nice boy.' Fleur looked up. Moussie-prophoned was swimming, heavily diabolical, before her. That! The reason! With the most heroic effort of her life so far, she managed to arrest that swimming figure. She could not tell whether he had noticed. And just then, Winifred came in. "'Oh, here you both are already. Imogen and I have had the most amusing afternoon at the baby's bizarre.' "'What baby's?' said Fleur mechanically. "'The save the baby's. I got such a bum, my dear, a piece of old Armenian work from before the flood. I want your opinion on it, of Prosper.' "'Auntie!' whispered Fleur, suddenly. At the tone in the girl's voice, Winifred closed in on her. "'What's the matter, aren't you well?' Moussie-prophoned had withdrawn into the window, where he was practically out of hearing. "'Auntie, he told me that father has been married before. Is it true that he divorced her, and she married John Forside's father? Never. In all the life of the mother of four little darties had Winifred felt more seriously embarrassed. Her niece's face was so pale, her eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained. "'Your father didn't wish you to hear,' she said, with all the aplomb she could muster. "'These things will happen. I've often told him he ought to let you know.' "'Oh!' said Fleur. And that was all. But it made Winifred pat her shoulder, a firm little shoulder, nice and white. She never could help but appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece. Who would have to be married, of course? They're not to that boy, John.' "'We've forgotten all about it years and years ago,' she said comfortably. "'Come and have dinner.' "'No, Aunty, I don't feel very well. May I go upstairs?' "'My dear!' murmured Winifred concerned. "'You're not taking this to heart. Why, you haven't properly come out yet. That boy is a child.' "'What boy? I've only got a headache, but I can't stand that man to-night.' "'Well, well,' said Winifred, "'go and lie down. I'll send you some bromide, and I shall talk to Prosper Perforne. What business-head he to gossip? Though I must say, I think it's much better you should know,' Fleur smiled. "'Yes,' she said, and slipped from the room. She went up with her head whirling, a dry sensation in her throat, a guttered, frightened feeling in her breast. Never in her life as yet had she suffered from even momentary fear that she would not get what she had set her heart on. The sensations of the afternoon had been full and poignant, and this gruesome discovery coming on the top of them had really made her head ache. No wonder her father had hidden that photograph so secretly behind her own, ashamed of having kept it. But could he hate John's mother and yet keep her photograph? She pressed her hands over her forehead, trying to see things clearly. Had they told John, had her visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell him? Everything now turned on that. He knew they all knew, except, perhaps, John. She walked up and down, biting her lip and thinking desperately hard. John loved his mother. If they had told him, what would he do? She could not tell, but if they had not told him, should she not? Could she not get him for herself, get married to him before he knew? She searched her memories of Robin Hill, his mother's face so passive, with its dark eyes, and as if powdered hair, its reserve, its smile, baffled her. And his father's, kindly, sunken, ironic. Instinctively she felt they would shrink from telling John, even now, shrink from hurting him. For, of course, it would hurt him awfully to know. Her aunt must be made not to tell her father that she knew. So long as neither she herself nor John was supposed to know, there was still a chance, freedom to cover one's tracks and get what her heart was set on. But she was almost overwhelmed by her isolation. Everyone's hand was against her, every one's. It was as John had said. He and she just wanted to live, and the past was in their way, a past they hadn't shared in and didn't understand. Oh, what a shame! But suddenly she thought of June. Which she helped them, for somehow June had left on her the impression that she would be sympathetic with their love, impatient of obstacle. Then instinctively she thought, I won't give anything away, though, even to her, I dand. I mean to have John against them all. Soup was brought to her, and one of Winifred's pet headache caches. She swallowed both. When Winifred herself appeared, Fleur opened her campaign with the words, You know, Aunty, I do wish people wouldn't think I'm in love with that boy. Why have hardly seen him? Winifred, though experienced, was not fine. She accepted the remark with considerable relief. Of course, it was not pleasant for the girl to hear of the family scandal. And she set herself to minimise the matter, a task for which she was imminently qualified, raised fashionably under a comfortable mother and a father whose nerves might not be shaken, and for many years the wife of Montague D'Arty. Her description was a masterpiece of understatement. Fleur's father's first wife had been very foolish. There had been a young man who had got run over, and she had left Fleur's father. Then years after, when it might all have come, right again, she had taken up with her cousin Jolian, and, of course, her father had been obliged to have a divorce. Nébida remembered anything of it now, except just the family, and perhaps it had all turned out for the best. Her father had Fleur, and Jolian Arnaurini had been quite happy, they said, and their boy was a nice boy. Val, having hollied, too, is a sort of plaster, don't you know? These soothing words, when if it patted her niece's shoulder, thought, she's a nice plump little thing, and went back to Prosper for fawned, who, in spite of his indiscretion, was very amusing this evening. For some minutes after her aunt had gone, Fleur remained under influence of bromide, material and spiritual. But then reality came back. Her aunt had left out all that mattered, all the feeling, the hate, the love, the unforgivingness of passionate hearts. She, who knew so little of life, and had touched only the fringe of love, was yet aware by instinct that words have as little relation to fact and feeling as coin to the bread it buys. Poor father, she thought, poor me, poor John! But I don't care I mean to have him, from the window of her darkened room she saw that man, issue from the door below, and prowl away. If he and her mother, how would that affect her chance? Surely it must make her father cling to her more closely, so that he would consent in the end to anything she wanted, or become reconciled the sooner to what she did without his knowledge. She took some earth from the flower-box in the window, and with all her might flung it after that disappearing figure. It fell short, but the action did her good. And a little puff of air came up from Green Street, spending of petrol, not sweet. End of Part 2, Chapter 5, Purely Foresight Affair Soames, coming up to the city, with the intention of calling in at Green Street at the end of his day, and taking Fleur back home with him, suffered from rumination. Sleeping partner that he was, he seldom visited the city now, but he still had a room of his own at Cuthcott, Kingston, and Foresight's, and one special clerk and a half assigned to the management of purely foresight affairs. They were somewhat in flux just now, an auspicious moment for the disposal of house-property. And Soames was unloading the estates of his father and Uncle Roger, and to some extent of his Uncle Nicholas. His shrewd and matter-of-course probity in all money concerns had made him something of an autocrat in connection with these trusts. If Soames thought this or thought that, one had better save oneself the bother of thinking too. He guaranteed, as it were, irresponsibility to numerous foresight of the third and fourth generations. His fellow trustees, such as his cousins Roger or Nicholas, his cousins-in-law Tweety-Man and Spender, or his sister Cicely's husband, all trusted him. He signed first, and where he signed first they signed after, and nobody was a penny the worse. Just now they were all a good many pennies the better, and Soames was beginning to see the close of certain trusts, except for distribution of the income from securities as guilt-edged as was compatible with the period. Passing the more feverish parts of the city toward the most perfect backwater in London he ruminated. Money was extraordinarily tight, morality extraordinarily loose. The war had done it. Banks were notling, people breaking contracts all over the place. There was a feeling in the air, and a look on faces that he did not like. The country seemed him for a spell of gambling and bankruptcies. There was satisfaction in the thought that neither he nor his trusts had an investment which could be affected by anything less maniacal than national repudiation or a levion capital. If Soames had faith it was in what he called English common sense, or the power to have things, if not one way, than another. He might, like his father James before him, say he didn't know what things were coming to, but he never in his heart believed they were. If it rested with him they wouldn't, and after all he was only an Englishman like any other so quiet a tenacious of what he had that he knew he would never really part with it without something more or less equivalent in exchange. His mind was essentially equilibristic in material matters, and his way of putting the national situation difficult to refute in a world composed of human beings. Take his own case for example. He was well off. Did that do anybody harm? He did not eat ten meals a day, he ate no more than perhaps not so much as a poor man. He spent no money on vise, breathed no more air, used no more water to speak of than the mechanic or the porter. He certainly had pretty things about him, but they had given employment in the making, and somebody misused them. He bought pictures, but art must be encouraged. He was in fact an accidental channel through which money flowed, employing labour. What was their objectionable in that? In his charge money was in quicker and more useful flux than it would be in charge of the state, and a lot of slow fly money sucking officials. And as to what he saved each year, he was just as much in flux as what he didn't save, going into a water board or council stocks or something sound and useful. The state paid him no salary for being trustee of his own or other people's money. He did all that for nothing. Therein lay the whole case against nationalisation. Owners of private property were unpaid, and yet had every incentive to quicken up the flux. Under nationalisation just the opposite. In a country smarking from officialism, he felt that he had a strong case. It particularly annoyed him entering that backwater of perfect peace, to think that a lot of unscrupulous trusts and combinations have been cornering the market in goods of all kinds and keeping prices at an artificial height. Such abusers of the individualistic system were the ruffians who caused all the trouble, and it was some satisfaction to see them getting into a stew at fast, lest the whole thing might come down with a run, and land them in the soup. The offices of Cuthcott, Kingston and Forsythe occupied the ground and first floors of a house on the right-hand side, and, ascending to his room, Seones thought, time he had a coat of paint. His old clerk, Gradman, was seated where he always was, at a huge bureau with countless pigeon-holes. Half the clerk stood beside him, with a broker's note recording investment of the proceeds from sale of the Bradston Square house in Roger Forsythe's estate. Seones took it and said, Vancouver City Stock, it's down today. With a sort of grating ingratiation, old Gradman answered him, yes, but everything's down, Mr. Seones. And half the clerk withdrew. Seones skewered the document onto a number of other papers and hung up his hat. I want to look at my will and marriage, settlement, Gradman. Old Gradman, moving to the limit of his swivel chair, drew out two drafts from the bottom left-hand drawer. Recovering his body, he raised his grizzle-haired face very red from stooping. Copies, sir. Seones took them. It struck him suddenly how like Gradman was to the stout brindled yard dog they had been wont to keep on his chain at the shelter, till one day Fleur had come and insisted it should be let loose, so that it had at once bitten the cook and been destroyed. If you let Gradman off his chain, would he bite the cook? Checking this frivolous fancy, Seones unfolded his marriage-settlement. He had not looked at it for over eighteen years, not since he remade his will, when his father died, when Fleur was born. He wanted to see whether the words during Coverture were in. Yes, they were. Odd expression when he thought of it, and rived perhaps from horse-breeding. Interest on fifteen thousand pounds, which he paid her without deducting income tax, so long as she remained his wife, and afterward, during widowhood, Dum Castar, old-fashioned and rather pointed words, put into ensure the conduct of Fleur's mother. His will made it up to an annuity of a thousand under the same conditions. All right. He returned the copies to Gradman, who took them without looking up, swung the chair, restored the papers to their draw, and went on casting up. Gradman, I don't like the condition of the country. There are a lot of people about without any common sense. I want to find a way by which I can safeguard Miss Fleur against anything which might arise. Gradman wrote the figure, too, on his blotting-pepper. Yes, he said, there's a nasty spirit. The order restrained against anticipation doesn't meet the case. New, said Gradman. Suppose those labour-pholos come in all worse. It's these people with fixed ideas with a danger. Look at Ireland. Nah, said Gradman. Suppose I were to make a settlement on her once, with myself as beneficiary for life. They couldn't take anything but the interest from me, unless of course they alter the law. Gradman moved his head and smiled. Ah, he said they wouldn't do that. I don't know, muttered soams. I don't trust them. It'll take two years, sir, to be valed against death duties. Soams sniffed. Two years. He was only sixty-five. That's not the point. Draw a form of settlement that passes all my property to Miss Fleur's children in equal shares with antecedent life-interests first to myself, and then to her without power of anticipation, and at a clause that in the event of anything happening to divert her life-interest, that interest passes to the trustees, to apply for her benefit in their absolute discretion. Gradman grated, Rather extreme at your age, sir, you lose control. That's my business, said Soams sharply. Gradman wrote on a piece of paper. Life-interest, anticipation, divert, interest, absolute discretion. And said, Ah, what trustees, there's young Mr. Kingston. He's a nice teddy-young fellow. Yes, he might do for one. I must have three. There isn't a foresight now who appeals to me. Not young Mr. Nicolas. He's at the bar. We've given him briefs. We'll never set the terms on fire, said Soams. A smile oozed out of Gradman's face, greasy from countless mutton-chops. A smile of a man who sits all day. You can't expect it at his age, Mr. Soams. Why, what is he, forty? Yes, quite a young fellow. Well, put him in. But I want somebody who'll take a personal interest as no one that I can see. What about Mr. Valerius, now he's come home? Val darted with that father? Well, murmured Gradman, he's been dead seven years, the statute runs against him. No, said Soams, I don't like the connection. He rose. Gradman said suddenly, If they were making a levy on capital they could come on down on the trustees, sir, so there you'd be just the same. I'd think it over, if I were you. That's true, said Soams, I will. What have you done about that dilapidation notice in Veer Street? I haven't served it yet, the party is very old, she won't want to go out at her age. I don't know, this spirit of unrest touches everyone. Still, I'm looking at things broad, sir, she's eighty-one. Better serve it, said Soams, and see what she says. Oh, and Mr. Timothy, is everything in order in case of—I've got the inventory of his estate already, had the furniture and the pitchers valued, so we'd know what reserve to put on. I should be sorry when he goes, though. Dear me, it is a time since I first saw Mr. Timothy. We can't live forever, said Soams, taking down his hat. No, said Gradman, but it'll be a pity, the last of the old family. Shall I take up the matter of that nuisance in old Compton Street? These organs, they're nasty things. Do. I must call for Miss Fleur and catch the four o'clock. Good day, Gradman. Good day, Mr. Soams. I hope Miss Fleur—well enough, but Gad's about too much. Yes, gritty Gradman, she's young. Soams went out, using—oh, Gradman, if he were younger, I'd put him in the trust, as nobody I can depend on to take a real interest. Leaving the bilious mathematical exactitude, the preposterous piece of that backwater, he thought suddenly, "'You're in Coverture? Why can't they exclude fellows like Preformed instead of a lot of hard-working Germans?' And was surprised at the depth of uneasiness which could provoke so unpatriotic a thought. But there it was. I never got a moment of real peace. There was always something at the back of everything.' And he made his way towards Green Street. Two hours later by his watch, Thomas Gradman, stirring in his swivel chair, closed the last drawer of his bureau, and putting into his waistcoat pocket a bunch of keys so fat that they gave him a protruberance on the liver side, brushed his old top hat round with his sleeve, took his umbrella, and descended. Thick, short, and buttoned closely into his old frock coat, he walked towards Covent Garden Market. He never missed that daily promenade to the tube for Highgate, and seldom some critical transaction on the way in connection with vegetables and fruit. Generations might be born, and hats might change, wars before, and foresight's fade away. But Thomas Gradman, faithful and grey, would take his daily walk and buy his daily vegetable. Times were not what they were, and his son had lost a leg, and they never gave him those nice little plaited baskets to carry the stuff in now. And these tubes were convenient things. Still he mustn't complain. His health was good considering his time at life, and after fifty-four years in the law he was getting around eight hundred a year, and a little worried of late, because it was mostly collector's commission on the rents, and with all this conversion of foresight property going on it looked like drying up, and the price of living still so high. But it was no good worrying. The good God made us all, as he was in the habit of saying. Still house property in London. He didn't know what Mr. Roger or Mr. James would say if they could see it being sold like this, seemed to show a lack of faith. But Mr. Soames, he worried. Life and lives in being, and twenty-one years after. Beyond that you couldn't go. Still he kept his health wonderfully. And Miss Fleur was a pretty little thing. She was. She married. But lots of people had no children nowadays. He had had his first child at twenty-two. And Mr. Jollyon, married one he was at Cambridge, had his child the same year. Gracious Peter. That was back in sixty-nine, a long time before old Mr. Jollyon. Find out of property. He had taken his will away from Mr. James. Dear, yes. Those were the days when they were buying property right and left, and none of this carkey, and falling over one another to get out of things. And cucumbers at Tuppence, and a melon, the old melons that made your mouth water. Fifty years since he went into Mr. James's office, and Mr. James had said to him, Now, Graveman, you're only a shaver. You pay attention, and you'll make your five hundred a year before you're done. And he had, and feared God, and served the four sights, and kept a vegetal mulled-art at night. And, buying a copy of John Bull, not that he approved of it an extravagant affair, he entered the tube elevator with his mere brown paper-plastle, and was born down into the bowels of the earth. End of Part 2, Chapter 5, Recording by Simon Evers. Part 2, Chapter 6 of To Let. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Simon Evers. The foresight saga, Three, To Let by John Galsworthy. Part 2, Chapter 6, Soames Private Life. On his way to Green Street, it occurred to Soames that he ought to go into Dumatrius in Suffolk Street about the possibility of the Boulderby Old Chrome. Almost worthwhile to have fought the war to have the Boulderby Old Chrome, as it were, in flux. Lord Boulderby had died. His son and grandson are being killed. A cousin was coming into the estate, who meant to sell it. Some said because of the condition of England. Others said because he had asthma. If Dumatrius once got hold of it, the price would become prohibitive. It was necessary for Soames to find out whether Dumatrius had got it before he tried to get it himself. He therefore confined himself to discussing with Dumatrius whether Monticellis would come again now that it was the fashion for a picture to be anything except a picture, and the future of Johns, with a side-slip into Buxton Nights. He was only when leaving that he added, Sir, they're not selling the Boulderby Old Chrome, after all? In sheer pride of racial superiority, as he had calculated would be the case, Dumatrius replied, Oh, I shall get it, Mr. Foresight, sir. A flutter of his eyelid fortified Soames in a resolution to write direct to the new Boulderby, suggesting that the only dignified way of dealing with an old Chrome was to avoid dealers. He therefore said, Well, good day, and went, leaving Dumatrius the wiser. At Green Street he found that Fleur was out, and would be all the evening. She was staying one more night in London. He cabbed on dejectedly, and caught his train. He reached his house about six o'clock. The air was heavy, midges biting, thunder about. Taking his letters he went up to his dressing-room to cleanse himself of London. An uninteresting post, a receipt, a bill for purchases on behalf of Fleur, a circular about an exhibition of etchings. A letter beginning, Sir, I feel it my duty. That would be an appeal or something unpleasant. He looked at once for the signature. There was none. Incredulously he turned to the page over and examined each corner. Not being a public man, Soames had never yet had an anonymous letter, and his first impulse was to tear it up as a dangerous thing, his second to read it as a thing still more dangerous. Sir, I feel it my duty to inform you that having no interest in the matter, your lady is carrying on with a foreigner. Reaching that word, Soames stopped mechanically and examined the postmark. So far as he could pierce the impenetrable disguise in which the post office had wrapped it, there was something with a C-SEA at the end, and a T in it. Chelsea? No. Perhaps. He read on. These foreigners are all the same. Sack the lot. This one meets your lady twice a week. I know it of my own knowledge, and to see an Englishman put on goes against the grain. You watch it, and see if what I say isn't true. I shouldn't meddle if it wasn't a dirty foreigner that's in it. Yours obedient. The sensation with which Soames dropped the letter was similar to that he would have entering his bedroom and finding it full of black beetles. The meanness of anonymity gave a shuddering obscenity to the moment, and the worst of it was that this shadow had been at the back of his mind ever since the Sunday evening when Fleur had pointed down at Prosper-proformed, strolling on the lawn, and said, Prowling cat? Had he not in connection there with this very day perused his will and marriage settlement, and now this anonymous ruffian with nothing to gain, apparently, save the venting of his spite against foreigners, had wrenched it out of the obscurity in which he had hoped and wished it would remain. To have such knowledge forced on him at this time of life about Fleur's mother. He picked the letter up from the carpet, tore it across, and then, when it hung together by just the fold at the back, stopped tearing and reread it. He was taking at that moment one of the decisive resolutions of his life. He would not be forced into another scandal. No. However, he decided to deal with this matter, and it required the most far-sighted and careful consideration. He would do nothing that might injure Fleur. That resolution taken, his mind answered the helm again, and he made his ablutions. His hands trembled as he dried them. Scandal he would not have, but something must be done to stop this sort of thing. He went into his wife's room and stood looking around him. The idea of searching for anything which would incriminate and entitle him to hold a menace over her did not even come to him. There would be nothing. She was much too practical. The idea of having her watched had been dismissed before it came. Too well, he remembered his previous experience of that. No. He had nothing but this torn-up letter from some anonymous ruffian whose impotent intrusion into his private life he so violently resented. It was repugnant to him to make use of it, but he might have to. What a mercier Fleur was not at home to-night. A tap on the door broke up his painful cogitations. Mr. Michael Montser is in the drawing-room. Will you see him? No, said Soames. Yes, I'll come down. Anything that would take his mind off for a few minutes? Michael Mont in flannels stood on the veranda smoking a cigarette. He threw it away as Soames came up and ran his hand through his hair. His feeling towards this young man was singular. He was no doubt a rackety, irresponsible young fellow, according to old standards. It's somehow likable, with his extraordinarily cheerful way of blurting out his opinions. Come in, he said. Have you had tea? Mont came in. I thought Fleur would have been back, sir, but I'm glad she isn't. The fact is I'm fearfully gone on her. So fearfully gone that I thought you'd better know. He fell fashioned, of course, coming to father's verse, but I thought you'd forgive that. I went to my own dad, and he says, if I settle down, he'll see me through. He rather cottons the idea, in fact. I told him about your goya. Oh! said Soames, inexpressibly dry. He rather cottons. Yes, sir, do you?" Soames smiled faintly. You see, resumed Mont, twiddling his straw hat, while his hair, ears, eyebrows all seemed to stand up from excitement. When you've been through the war, you can't help being in a hurry. To get married and unmarried afterward, said Soames slowly. Not from Fleur, sir, imagine if you were me. Soames cleared his throat. That way of putting it was forcible enough. Was too young, he said. Oh! No, sir, we're awfully old nowadays. My dad seems to me a perfect babe. His thinking apparatus hasn't turned to hair. But he's a baronite, of course. That keeps him back. Baronite, repeated Soames. What may that be? Bart, sir. I should be a bart some day, but I shall leave it down, you know. Go away and live this down, said Soames. Old Mont said imploringly, Oh, no, sir, I simply must hang around, or I shouldn't have a dog's chance. You'll let Fleur do what she likes, I suppose, anyway. Madame passes me. Indeed, said Soames frigidly. You don't really bar me, do you? And the young man looked so doful that Soames smiled. You may think you're very old, he said, but you strike me as extremely young. To rattle ahead of everything is not a proof of maturity. All right, sir, I give you our age, but to show you I'm in business, I've got a job. Glad to hear it. Joined a publisher. My governor is putting up the stakes. Soames put his hand over his mouth. He had so very nearly said, God help the publisher. His grey eyes scrutinized the agitated young man. I don't dislike you, Mr. Mont, but Fleur is everything to me, everything, do you understand? Yes, sir, I know, but so she is to me. That's as maybe I'm glad you've told me, however. And now I think there's nothing more to be said. I know it rests with her, sir. It will rest with her a long time, I hope. You aren't cheering, said Mont suddenly. No, said Soames. My experience of life has not made me anxious to couple people in a hurry. Good night, Mr. Mont. I shan't tell Fleur what you've said. Oh! murmured Mont blankly. I really could knock my brains out for want of her. She knows that perfectly well. I daresay. And Soames held out his hand. A distracted squeeze, a heavy sigh, and soon after sounds from the young man's motorcycle called up visions of flying dust and broken bones. The younger generation, he thought heavily, and went out onto the lawn. The gardeners had been mowing, but there was still the smell of fresh cut grass. The thundery air kept all scents close to earth. The sky was of a purplish hue, the poplars black. Two or three boats passed on the river, scuttling as it were for shelter before the storm. Three days fine weather, thought Soames, and then a storm. Where was Annette? With that chap forl he knew she was a young woman. Impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he entered the summer-house and sat down. The fact was, and he admitted it, Fleur was so much to him that his wife was very little—very little—French—and never been much more than a mystery. And he was getting indifferent to that side of things. It was odd how, with all this ingrained care for moderation and secure investment, Soames ever put his emotional eggs into one basket. First Irene, now Fleur. He was dimly conscious of it sitting there, conscious of its odd dangerousness. It had brought him to wreck and scandal once, but now it should save him. He cared so much for Fleur that he would have no further scandal. If any who could get at that anonymous letter-writer he would teach him not to meddle and stir up mud at the bottom of water which he wished would remain stagnant. A distant flash, a low rumble, and large drops of rain spattered on the thatch above him. He remained indifferent, tracing a pattern with his finger on the dusty surface of a little rustic table. Fleur's future. I want fair sailing for her, he thought. Nothing else matters at my time of life. A lonely business, life. What you had you could never keep to yourself. As you warned one off you let another in, one could make sure of nothing. He reached up, and pulled the red rambler rose from a cluster which blocked the window. Fleur's grew and dropped. Nature was a queer thing. The thunder rumbled and crashed. Travelling east along a river, the painting flashes flicked his eyes. The poplar tops showed sharp and dense against the sky. A heavy char, rustled and rattled, and veiled in the little house wherein he sat, indifferent, thinking. When the storm was over, he left his retreat, and went down the wet path to the river bank. Two swans had come, sheltering in among the reeds. He knew the birds well, and stood watching the dignity and the curve of those white necks and formidable snake-like heads. Not dignified what I have to do, he thought, and yet it must be tackled at least worse than it must be fell. And yet it must be back by now from wherever she had gone, for it was nearly dinnertime. And as the moment for seeing her approached, the difficulty of knowing what to say and how to say it had increased. A new and scaring thought occurred to him. Suppose she wanted her liberty to marry this fellow? Well, if she did, she couldn't have it. He had not married her for that. The image of Prosper performed dawdle to perform him reassuringly. Not a marrying man, no, no. Anger replaced that momentary scare. He had better not come my way, he thought. The mongrel represented—but what did Prosper perform represent? Nothing that mattered, surely, and yet something real enough in the world. A morality let off its chain, disillusionment on the prowl. That expression Annette had caught from him. Je m'en fiche. A fatalistic chap, a continental, a cosmopolitan, a product of the age. If there were condemnation more complete, Soames felt that he did not know it. The swans had turned their heads, and were looking past him into some distance of their own. One of them uttered a little hiss, wagged its tail, turned as if answering to a rudder, and swam away. The other followed. Their white bodies, their stately necks, passed out of his sight, and he went towards the house. Annette was in the drawing-room, dressed for dinner, and he thought as he went upstairs, handsome is as handsome does. Handsome. Except for remarks about the curtains in the drawing-room and the storm, there was practically no conversation during a meal distinguished by exactitude of quantity and perfection of quality. Soames drank nothing. He followed her into the drawing-room afterward, and found her smoking a cigarette on the sofa between the two French windows. She was leaning back almost upright in a low black frock, with her knees crossed and her blue eyes half closed. Very blue smoke issued from her red, rather full lips. Her filet bound her chestnut hair. She wore the thinnest silk stockings, and shoes with very high heels showing off her instep. A fine piece in any room. Soames, who held that torn letter in a hand thrust deep into the side pocket of his jinnah-jacket, said, I'm going to shut the window, the damps lifting in. He did so, and stood looking at a David Cox adorning the cream-paneled wall close by. What was she thinking of? He had never understood a woman in his life, except Fleur, and Fleur not always. His heart beat fast, but if he meant to do it, now was the moment. Turning from the David Cox, he took out the torn letter. I've had this. Her eyes widened, stared at him, and hardened. Soames handed her the letter. It's torn, but you can read it. And he turned back to the David Cox, a see-piece of good tone, but without movement enough. I wonder what that chap's doing at this moment, he thought. I'll astonish him yet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Annette holding the letter rigidly. Her eyes moved from side to side under her darkened lashes and frowning darkened eyes. She dropped the letter, gave a little shiver, smiled, and said, Dirty! I quite agree, said Soames, degrading. Is it true? Her tooth fastened on her red, lower lip. And what if it were? She was brazen. Is that all you have to say? No. Well, speak out. What is the good of talking? Soames said, ictly. So you admit it? I admit nothing. You are a fool to ask. A man like you should not ask. It is dangerous. Soames made a tour of the room to subdue his rising anger. Do you remember, he said, halting in front of her, what you were when I married you, working at a count in a restaurant? Do you remember that I was not half your age? Soames broke off the hard encounter of their eyes and went back to the David Cox. I am not going to bandy words. I require you to give up this friendship. I think of the matter entirely as it affects Fleur. Ah, Fleur! Yes, said Soames stubbornly, Fleur, she is your child as well as mine. It is kind to admit that. Are you going to do what I say? I refuse to tell you. Then I must make you." Annette smiled. No, Soames, she said, you are helpless. You do not say things that you will regret. Anger swelled the veins on his forehead. He opened his mouth to vent that emotion. I could not. Annette went on. There shall be no more such letters, I promise you. That is enough. Soames writhed. He had a sense of being treated like a child by this woman who had deserved. He did not know what. When two people have married and lived like us, Soames, they have better be quiet about each other. There are things one does not drag up into the light for people to laugh at. You will be quiet, then, not for my sake, for your own. You are getting old? I am not, yet. You have made me very practical. Soames, who had passed through all the sensations of being choked, repeated dally, I require you to give up this friendship. And if I do not, then I will cut you out of my will. Somehow it did not seem to meet the case. Annette laughed. You will live a long time, Soames. You are a bad woman, said Soames, suddenly. Annette shrugged her shoulders. I do not think so. Living with you has killed things in me, it is true, but I am not a bad woman. I am sensible, that is all. And so will you be when you have thought it over. I shall see this man, said Soames, suddenly, and warn him off. Monshe, you are funny. You do not want me. You have as much of me as you want, and you wish the rest of me to be dead. I admit nothing, but I am not going to be dead, Soames, at my age, so you had better be quiet, I tell you. I myself will make no scandal, none. Now I am not seeing any more whatever you do. She reached out, took a French novel of a little table, and opened it. Soames watched her, silenced by the tumult of his feelings. The thought of that man was what was making him want her, and this was a revelation of their relationship, startling to one little given to introspective philosophy. Without saying another word, he went out, and up to the picture gallery. This came of marrying a Frenchwoman, and yet without her there would have been no flaw. She had served her purpose. She is right, he thought. I can do nothing. I do not even know that there is anything in it. The instinct of self-preservation warned him to batten down his hatches, to smother the fire with want of air. Unless one believed there was something in a thing, there wasn't. That night he went into her room. She received him in the most matter-of-fact way, as if there had been no scene between them. And he returned to his own room with a curious sense of peace. If one didn't choose to see, one needn't, and he did not choose, in future he did not choose. There was nothing to be gained by it, nothing. Opening the drawer, he took from the sachet a handkerchief, and the framed photograph of Fleur. When he had looked at it a little, he slipped it down, and there was that other one, that old one of Irini, an owl hooted what he stood in his window gazing at it. The owl hooted, the red climbing roses seemed to deepen in colour. There came a scent of lime-blossom. God! That had been a different thing. Passion, memory, dust. End of Part 2, Chapter 7, June takes a hand. One who was a skumpter, a slav, a sometime resident in New York, an egoist, and impecunious, was to be found of an evening in June foresight's studio on the bank of the Thames at Chiswick. On the evening of June 6, Boris Strumalovsky, several of whose works were on show there, because there was yet too advanced to be on show anywhere else, had begun well, with that aloof and rather Christ-like silence which aberrably suited his youthful, round, broad, cheek-boned countenance, framed in bright hair, banged like a girl's. June had known him three weeks, and he still seemed to her the principal embodiment of genius and hope of the future, a sort of star of the East which had strayed into an unappreciative West. Until that evening he had conversationally confined himself to recording his impressions of the United States, whose dust he had just shaken from off his feet, a country in his opinion so barbarous in every way that he had sold practically nothing there, and become of objects of suspicion to the police, a country as he said without a race of its own, without liberty, equality, or fraternity, without principles, traditions, taste, without, in a word, a soul. He had left it for his own good, and come to the only other country where he could live well. June had dwelt unhappily on him in her lonely moments, standing before his creations, frightening but powerful and symbolic once they had been explained, that he hallowed by bright hair like an early Italian painting, and absorbed in his genius to the exclusion of all else, the only sign, of course, by which real genius could be told, should still be a lame duck, agitated her warm heart almost to the exclusion of Paul Post, and she had begun to take steps to clear her gallery in order to fit it with Strumolovsky's masterpieces. She had at once encountered trouble, Paul Post had kicked, Vospovich had stung. With all the emphasis of a genius which she did not as yet deny them, they had demanded another six weeks at least off her gallery. The American stream still flowing in would soon be flowing out. The American stream was their right, their only hope, their salvation, since nobody in this beastly country cared for art. June had yielded to the demonstration. After all, Boris would not mind there having the full benefit of an American stream, which he himself so violently despised. This evening she had put that to Boris, with nobody else present, except Hannah Hobedy, the medieval black and whitest, and Jimmy Portigal, editor of the neo-artist. She put it to him with that sudden confidence which continual contact with the neo-artistic world had never been able to dry up in her warm and generous nature. He had not broken his Christ-like silence, however, for more than two minutes, before she began to move her blue eyes from side to side as a cat moves its tail. This, he said, was characteristic of England, the most selfish country in the world, the country which sucked the blood of other countries, destroyed the brains and hearts of Irishmen, Hindus, Egyptians, Burs and Burmese, all the best races in the world, bullying hypocritical England. This is what he had expected, coming to such a country where the climate was all fog and the people all tradesmen perfectly blind to art, and sunk in profiteering and the grossest materialism. Conscious that Hannah Hobday was murmuring, here, here, and Jimmy Portigal sniggering, June grew crimson and suddenly wrapped out, then why did you ever come, we didn't ask you? The remark was so singularly at variance with all she had led him to expect from her that Schumulowski stretched out his hand and took a cigarette. England never wants an idealist, he said. But in June something primitively English was thoroughly upset. Old Jolien's sense of justice had risen, as it were, from bed. You come and sponge on us, she said, and then abuse us. If you think that's playing the game, I don't. She now discovered that which others had discovered before her. The thickness of hide beneath which the sensibility of genius is sometimes veiled. Schumulowski's young and ingenuous face became the incarnation of a sneer. Spunned! One does not sponge, one takes what is owing a tenth part of what is owing. You will repent to say that, Miss Forsyte. Oh, no, said June, I shan't. Ah, we know very well the artist. You take us to get what you can get out of us. I want nothing from you. And he blew out a cloud of June's smoke. Decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame within her. Very well then you can take your things away. And almost in the same moment, she thought. Poor boy, he's only got a garret, and probably not a taxi fare. In front of these people, too, it's positively disgusting. Young Strumulowski shook his head violently. His hair, thick, smooth, close as a golden plate, did not fall off. I can live on nothing, he said, truly. I have often had two for the sake of my art. It is you bourgeois who force us to spend money. The words hit June like a pebble in the ribs. After all, she had done for art all her identification with its troubles and lame ducks. She was struggling for adequate words when the door was opened. And her Austrian murmured, Our young lady, and argues, have far our line. Where? In a little meal-room? With a glance at Boris Strumulowski, at Hannah Hobbeday, at a gym in Portugal, June said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity. Entering the little meal-room, she perceived the young lady to be fleur, looking very pretty, if pale. At this disenchanted moment a little lame duck of her own breed was welcomed to June so homeopathic by instinct. The girl must have come, of course, because of John, or if not at least to get something out of her. And June felt just then that to assist somebody was the only bearable thing. So you remember to come, she said. Yes, what a jolly little duck of her house, but please don't let me bother you if you've got people. Not at all, said June. I want to let them stew in their own juice for a bit. Have you come about, John? You said we ought to be told, when I've found out. Oh! said June blankly. Not nice, is it? They were standing, one on each side of the little bear table, at which June took her meals. A vase on it was full of Iceland poppies. The girl raised her hand and touched them with a gloved finger. To her new-fangled dress, frilly about the hips and tight below the knees, June took a sudden liking, a charming colour, flax blue. She makes a picture, thought June. A little room with its whitewashed walls, its flaw and half of old pink brick, its black paint and lattice window, a thought which the last of the sunlight was shining, had never looked so charming, set off by this young figure, with the creamy, slightly frowning face. She remembered with sudden vividness how nice she herself had looked in those old days when her heart was set on Philip Bersinny, that dead lover, who had broken from her to destroy forever Irene's allegiance to this girl's father. Did Fleur know of that, too? Well, she said, what are you going to do? It was some seconds before Fleur answered. I don't want John to suffer. I must see him once more to put an end to it. You're going to put an end to it? What else is there to do? The girl seemed to June suddenly intolerably spiritless. I suppose you're right, she muttered. I know my father thinks so, but I should never have done it myself. I can't take things lying down. How poised and watchful that girl looked, how unemotional her voice sounded. People will assume that I'm in love. Well, aren't you? Fleur shrugged her shoulders. I might have known it, thought June. She sowns his daughter fish, and yet he— What do you want me to do, then? she said with a sort of disgust. Could I see John here, to-morrow, on his way down to Holly's? He'd come if you sent him a line to-night, and perhaps afterward you'd let them know quietly at Robin Hill that it's all over, and then they'd needn't tell John about his mother. All right, said June abruptly. I'll write now, and you can post it. Half-past two to-morrow. I shall be in myself. She sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. When she looked round with the finished note, Fleur was still touching the poppies with her loved finger. June licked a stamp. Well, here it is. If you're not in love, of course there's no law to be said. John's lucky. Fleur took the note. Thanks awfully! Cold-blooded little baggage, thought June. John, son of her father, to love, and not be loved by the daughter of Soames, it was humiliating. Is that all? Fleur nodded. Her frills shook and trembled as she swayed towards the door. Good-bye! Good-bye! Little piece of fashion muttered June closing the door. That family! And she marched back towards her studio. Boris Trimolovsky had regained his Christ-like silence, and Jimmy Portugal was damning everybody except the group in whose behalf he ran the neo-artist. Among the condemned were Eric Cobly and several other lame duck genii, who at one time or another had held first place in the repertoire of June's aid and adoration. She experienced a sense of futility and disgust, and went to the window to let the river wind blow those squeaky words away. But when at length Jimmy Portugal had finished and gone with Hannah Hobday, she sat down and mothered young Trimolovsky for half an hour, promising him a month at least of the American stream, so that he went away with his halo in perfect order. In spite of all, June thought, Boris is wonderful. End of Part 2, Chapter 7, recording by Simon Evers. Part 2, Chapter 8 of To Let. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Simon Evers. The Foresight Saga, 3. To Let. by John Goresworthy. Part 2, Chapter 8. The Bit Between the Teeth. To know that your hand is against everyone's is, for some natures, to experience a sense of moral release. Fleur felt no remorse when she left June's house. Reading condom-natory resentment in her little kinswoman's blue eyes, she was glad that she had fooled her, despising June, because that elderly idealist had not seen what she was after. End it for Soothe. She would soon show them all that she was only just beginning, and she smiled to herself on the top of the bus which carried her back to Mayfair. But the smile died, squeezed out by spasms of anticipation and anxiety. Would she be able to manage John? She had taken the bit between her teeth, but could she make him take it too? She knew the truth and the real danger of delay. He knew neither. Therein lay all the difference in the world. Suppose I tell him, she thought. Wouldn't it really be safer? This hideous luck had no right to spoil their love. He must see that. They could not let it. People always accepted an accomplished fact in time. From that piece of philosophy, profound enough at her age, she passed to another consideration less philosophic. If she persuaded John to a quick and secret marriage, and he found out afterward that she had known the truth, what then? John hated sub-diffuse. Again, then, would it not be better to tell him? But the memory of his mother's face kept intruding on that impulse. Fleur was afraid. His mother had power over him, more power perhaps than she herself. Who could tell? It was too great a risk. Deep sunk in these instinctive calculations, she was carried on past Green Street, as far as the Ritz Hotel. She got down there, and walked back on the Green Park side. The storm had washed every tree. They still dripped. Heavy drops fell onto her frills, and to avoid them, she crossed over under the eyes of the Iseum Club. Chancing to look up, she saw Monsieur Prefond with a tall stout man in the bay window, turning into Green Street she heard her name called, and saw that prowler coming up. He took off his hat, and lost his bowler, such as he particularly detested. Good evening, Miss Forsyte. Isn't there a small thing I can do for you? Yes, pass by on the other side. I say, why do you dislike me? Do I? It looks like it. Well, then, because you make me feel life isn't worth living. Monsieur Prefond smiled. Look here, Miss Forsyte, don't worry. It'll be all right. Nothing lasts. Things do last, cried Fleur, with me anyhow, especially likes and dislikes. Well, that makes me a bit unhappy. I should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or unhappy. I don't like to annoy other people. I'm going on my yacht. Fleur looked at him startled. Where? A small voyage to the South Seas or somewhere, said Monsieur Prefond. Fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult. Clearly he meant to convey that he was breaking with her mother. How dared he have anything to break! And yet how dared he break it? Good night, Miss Forsyte. Remember me to Mrs. Datte. I'm not so bad, really. Good night. Fleur left him standing there with his hat raised. Stinea looked round. She saw him stroll immaculate and heavy back towards his club. He can't even love with conviction, she thought. What will mother do? Her dreams that night were endless and uneasy. She rose heavy and unrested, and went at once to the study of Whittaker's almanac. A Forsyte is instinctively aware that facts are the real crux of any situation. She might conquer John's prejudice, but without exact machinery to complete their desperate resolve, nothing would happen. From the invaluable tome, she learned that there must each be twenty-one, or someone's consent would be necessary, which of course was unobtainable. Then she became lost in directions concerning licenses, certificates, notices, districts, coming finally to the word perjury. But that was nonsense. Who would really mind their giving wrong ages in order to be married for love? She had hardly any breakfast, and went back to Whittaker. The more she studied, the less sure she became. Till I'd returned in the pages, she came to Scotland. People could be married there without any of this nonsense. She had only to go and stay there twenty-one days, then John could come, and in front of two people they could declare themselves married. And what was more, they would be. It was far the best way, and at once she ran over her school-fellows. There was Mary Lamb, who lived in Edinburgh, and was quite a sport. She had a brother too. She could stay with Mary Lamb, who with her brother would serve for witnesses. She well knew that some girls would think all this unnecessary, and that all she and John need to do was to go away together for a weekend, and then say to their people, We are married by nature, we must now be married by law. But Fleur was foresight enough to feel such a proceeding dubious, and to dread her father's face when he heard of it. Besides, she did not believe that John would do it. He had an opinion of her, such as she could not bear to diminish. Now, Mary Lamb was preferable, and it was just the time of year to go to Scotland. More at ease now, she packed, avoided her aunt, and took a bus to Chiswick. She was too early, and went on to queue gardens. She found no peace among its flowerbeds, labelled trees, and broad green spaces, and having lunched off anchovy-paste sandwiches and coffee, returned to Chiswick, and rang June's bell. The Austrian admitted her to the little meal-room. Now that she knew what she and John were up against, her longing for him had increased tenfold, as if he were a toy with sharp edges or dangerous paint, such as they had tried to take from her as a child. If she could not have her way and get John for good and all, she felt like dying of privation. By hook or crook she must and would get him. Around dim mirror a very old glass hung over the prank-break half. She stood looking at herself, reflected in it, pale, and rather dark under the eyes. Little shudders kept passing through her nerves. Then she heard the bell ring, and, stealing to the window, saw him standing on the doorstep smoothing his hair and lips, as if he too were trying to subdue the fluttering of his nerves. She was sitting on one of the two rust-seated chairs with her back to the door when he came in, and she said at once, Sit down, John. I want to talk seriously. John sat on the table by her side, without looking at him, she went on. If you don't want to lose me, we must get married. John gasped. Why, is there anything new? No, but I felt it at Robin Hill and among my people. But, stammered John, at Robin Hill it was all smoother, and they said nothing to me. But they meant to stop us. Your mother's face was enough, and my father's. Have you seen him since? Fleur nodded. What mattered a few supplementary lies? But, said John Eagley, I can't see how they can feel like that after all these years. Fleur looked up at him. Perhaps you don't love me enough. Not love you enough? Why, then make sure of me, without telling them. Not till after. John was silent. How much older he looked than on that day, barely two months ago, when she first saw him. Quite two years older. It would hurt mother awfully, he said. Fleur drew her hand away. You've got to choose. John slid off the table onto his knees. But why not tell them they can't really stop us, Fleur? They can. I tell you they can. How? We're utterly dependent by putting money pressure and all sorts of other pressure. I'm not patient, John. But it's deceiving them. Fleur got up. You can't really love me, or you wouldn't hesitate. He either fears his fate too much. Lifting his hands to her waist, John forced her to sit down again. She hurried on. I've planned it all out. We're only going to go to Scotland. When we're married, they'll soon come round. People always come round to facts, don't you see, John? But to hurt them so awfully. So he'd rather hurt her than those people of his. All right, then, let me go. John got up and put his back against the door. I expect you're right, he said slowly. But I want to think it over. She could see that he was seething with feelings he wanted to express, but she did not mean to help him. She hated herself at this moment and almost hated him. Why had she to do all the work to secure their love? It wasn't fair. And then she saw his eyes adoring and distressed. Don't look like that. I only don't want to lose you, John. You can't lose me so long as you want me. Oh, yes, I can. John put his hands on her shoulders. Fleur, do you know anything you haven't told me? It was the point-blank question she had dreaded. She looked straight at him and answered, No. She had burnt her boats, but what did it matter if she got him? He would forgive her. And throwing her arms round his neck, she kissed him on the lips. She was winning. She felt it in the beating of his heart against her, in the closing of his eyes. I want to make sure. I want to make sure, she whispered. Promise! John did not answer. His face had the stillness of extreme trouble. At last he said, It's like hitting them. I must think a little, Fleur. I really must. Fleur slipped out of his arms. Oh, very well! And suddenly she burst into tears of disappointment, shame and overstrain. Followed five minutes of acute misery. John's remorse and tenderness knew no bounds, but he did not promise. Despite her will to cry, Very well then, if you don't love me enough, goodbye! She dared not. From birth accustomed to her own way, this check from one so young, so tender, so devoted, baffled and surprised her. She wanted to push him away from her, to try what anger and coldness would do. And again, she dared not. The knowledge that she was scheming to rush him blindfold into the irrevocable, weakened everything. Weakened the sincerity of peak, and the sincerity of passion. Even her kisses had not the lure she wished for them. That stormy little meeting ended inconclusively. Villu was some tear, nages and Fleur-line. Pushing John from her, she cried out, No, no, thank you, I'm just going. And before he could prevent her, she was gone. She went stealthily, mopping her gushed, stained cheeks, frightened, angry, very miserable. She had stirred up John so fearfully, yet nothing definite was promised or arranged. But the more uncertain and hazardous the future, the more the will to have worked its tentacles into the flesh of her heart, like some burrowing tick. No one was at Green Street. Winifred had gone with Imogen to see a play, which some said was allegorical, and others, very exciting, don't you know? It was because of what others said that Winifred and Imogen had gone. Fleur went on to Paddington. Through the carriage, the air from the brick kilns of West Drayton and the late Hayfields fanned her still gushed cheeks. Flowers had seemed to be had for the picking. Now they were all thorned and prickled. But the golden flower, within the crown of spikes, seemed to her tenacious spirit, all the fairer and more desirable. End of Part 2, Chapter 8, Recording by Simon Evers Part 2, Chapter 9 of To Let. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Foresight Saga 3, To Let, by John Gullsworthy. Part 2, Chapter 9, The Fat in the Fire On reaching home, Fleur found an atmosphere so peculiar that it penetrated even the perplexed aura of her own private life. Her mother was inaccessibly entrenched in a brown study, her father contemplating fate in the binary. Neither of them had a word to throw to a dog. Is it because of me, thought Fleur, or because of Perfond? To her mother, she said. What's the matter with father? Her mother answered with a shrug of her shoulders. To her father. What's the matter with mother? Her father answered. Matter? What should be the matter? And gave her a sharp look. By the way, murmured Fleur, Monture Perfond is going a small voyage on his yacht to the South Seas. Somes examined a branch on which no grapes were growing. This finds a failure, he said. I've had young Monture. He asked me something about you. Oh, how do you like him, father? He—he's a product, like all these young people. What were you at his age, dear? Somes smiled grimly. We went to work and didn't play about, flying and motoring and making love. Didn't you ever make love? She avoided looking at him while she said that, but she saw him well enough. His pale face had reddened. His eyebrows, where darkness was still mingled with the gray, had come close together. I had no time or inclination to philander. Perhaps you had a grand passion. Somes looked at her intently. Yes, if you want to know, and much good it did me. He moved away, along by the hot water pipes. Fleur tiptoed silently after him. Tell me about it, father. Somes became very still. What should you want to know about such things at your age? Is she alive? He nodded. And married? Yes. It's John Forsyte's mother, isn't it? And she was your wife first. It was said in a flash of intuition. Surely his opposition came from his anxiety that she should not know of that old wound to his pride. But she was startled to see someone so old and calm wince as if struck to hear so sharp a note of pain in his voice. Who told you that? If you're Aunt, I can't bear the affair talked of. But darling, said Fleur softly, it's so long ago. Long ago or not, I, Fleur, stood stroking his arm. I've tried to forget, he said suddenly. I don't wish to be reminded. And then as if venting some long and secret irritation, he added, in these days people don't understand. Grand passion indeed, no one knows what it is. I do, said Fleur, almost in a whisper. Sones, who had turned his back on her, spun round. What are you talking of, a child like you? Perhaps I've inherited it, Father. What? For her son, you see. He was pale as a sheet, and she knew that she was as bad. They stood staring at each other in the steamy heat, redolent of the mushy scent of earth, of potted geranium, and of vines coming along. This is crazy, said Sones, at last, between dry lips. Scarcely moving her own, she murmured. Don't be angry, Father, I can't help it. But she could see he wasn't angry, only scared, deeply scared. I thought that foolishness, he stammered, was all forgotten. Oh no, it's ten times what it was. Sones kicked at the hot water pipe. The hapless movement touched her, who had no fear of her father. None. Dearest, she said, what must be, must, you know. Must, repeated Sones, you don't know what you're talking of. Has that boy been told? The blood rushed into her cheeks. Not yet. He had turned from her against her, and she said, her cheeks. Not yet. He had turned from her again, and with one shoulder a little raised, stood staring fixedly at a joint in the pipes. It's most distasteful to me, he said suddenly. Nothing could be more so. Son of that fellow, it's, it's perverse. She had noted, almost unconsciously, that he did not say, son of that woman, and again her intuition began working. Did the ghost of that grand passion linger in some corner of his heart? She slipped her hand under his arm. John's father was quite ill and old. I saw him. You? Yes, I went there with John. I saw them both. Well, and what did they say to you? Nothing. They were very polite. They would be. He resumed his contemplation of the pipe joint, and then said suddenly, I must think this over. I'll speak to you again tonight. She knew this was final for the moment and stole away, leaving him still looking at the pipe joint. She wandered into the fruit garden among the raspberry and current bushes without impetus to pick and eat. Two months ago, she was lighthearted. Even two days ago, lighthearted, before Prosper Paphon told her. Now she felt tangled in a web of passions, vested rights, oppressions and revolts, the ties of love and hate. At this dark moment of discouragement there seemed, even to her, whole fast nature, no way out. How deal with it. How sway and bend things to her will and get her heart's desire. And suddenly, round the corner of the high box hedge, she came plump on her mother, walking swiftly with an open letter in her hand. Her bosom was heaving, her eyes dilated, her cheeks flushed. Instantly, Fleur thought, the yacht, poor mother. Annette gave her a wide, startled look and said, Ja la migraine, I'm awfully sorry, mother. Oh yes, you and your father, sorry. But mother, I am. I know what it feels like. Annette's startled eyes grew wide till the whites showed above them. Poor innocent, she said. Her mother, so self-possessed and commonsensical, to look and speak like this, it was all frightening. Her father, her mother, herself, and only two months back, they had seemed to have everything they wanted in this world. Annette crumpled the letter in her hand. Fleur knew that she must ignore the sight. Can't I do anything for your head, mother? Annette shook that head and walked on, swaying her hips. It's cruel, thought Fleur, and I was glad, that man. What do men come prowling for, disturbing everything? I suppose he's tired of her. What business has he to be tired of my mother? What business? And at that thought, so natural and so peculiar, she uttered a little choked laugh. She ought, of course, to be delighted. But what was there to be delighted at? Her father didn't really care. Her mother did, perhaps. She entered the orchard and sat down under a cherry tree. A breeze sighed in the higher bowels. The sky, seen through their green, was very blue and very white in cloud. Those heavy white clouds almost always present in river landscape. Bees, sheltering out of the wind, hummed softly, and over the lush grass fell the thick shade from those fruit trees planted by her father five and twenty years ago. Birds were almost silent. The cuckoos had ceased to sing, but wood pigeons were cooing. The breath and drone and cooing of high summer were not for long a sedative to her excited nerves. Crouched over her knees, she began to scheme. Her father must be made to back her up. Why should he mine so long as she was happy? She had not lived for nearly nineteen years without knowing that her future was all he really cared about. She had, then, only to convince him that her future could not be happy without John. He thought it a mad fancy. How foolish the old were, thinking they could tell what the young felt. Had not he confessed that he, when young, had loved with a grand passion, he ought to understand. He piles up his money for me, she thought. But what's the use, if I'm not going to be happy? Money, and all it bought, did not bring happiness. Love only brought that. The oxide daisies in this orchard, which gave it such a moony look sometimes, grew wild and happy and had their hour. They ought to have called me floor, she mused, if they didn't mean me to have my hour and be happy while it lasts. Nothing real stood in the way, like poverty or disease, sentiment only, a ghost from the unhappy past. John was right, they wouldn't let you live these old people. They made mistakes, committed crimes, and wanted their children to go on paying. The breeze died away, midges began to bite. She got up, plucked a piece of honeysuckle, and went in. It was hot that night. Both she and her mother had put on thin, pale, low frocks. The dinner flowers were pale. Flora was struck with the pale look of everything. Her father's face, her mother's shoulder, the pale paneled walls, the pale gray velvety carpet, the lampshade, even the soup was pale. There was not one spot of color in the room, not even wine in the pale glasses, for no one drank it. What was not pale was black. Her father's clothes, the butler's clothes, her retriever stretched out exhausted in the window, the curtains black with a cream pattern. A moth came in and that was pale, and silent was that half-morning dinner in the heat. Her father called her back as she was following her mother out. She sat down beside him at the table, and unpinning the pale honeysuckle put it to her nose. I've been thinking, he said. Yes, dear? It's extremely painful for me to talk, but there's no help for it. I don't know if you understand how much you are to me. I've never spoken of it. I didn't think it necessary, but you're everything. Your mother, he paused, staring at his finger bowl of the niche in glass. Yes, I've only you to look to. I've never had, never wanted anything else since you were born. I know, Flora murmured. Some's moistened his lips. You may think this is a matter I can smooth over and arrange for you. You're mistaken. I'm helpless. Flora did not speak. Quite apart from my own feelings went on some's with more resolution. Those two are not amenable to anything I can say. They, they hate me as people always hate those whom they have injured. But he, John, he's their flesh and blood, her only child. Probably he means to her what you mean to me. It's a deadlock. No, cried Flora. No, Father. Some's leaned back. The image of pale patience as if resolved on the betrayal of no emotion. Listen, he said. You're putting the feelings of two months, two months against the feelings of 35 years. What chance do you think you have? Two months, your very first love affair, a matter of half a dozen meetings, a few walks and talks, a few kisses, against, against what you can't imagine, what no one could who hasn't been through it. Come, be reasonable, Flora. It's mid-summer madness. Flora tore the honeysuckle until little slow bits. The madness is in letting the past spoil it all. What do we care about the past? It's our lives, not yours. Some's raised his hand to his forehead, where suddenly she saw moisture shining. Whose child are you, he said? Whose child is he? The present is linked with the past, the future with both. There's no getting away from that. She had never heard philosophy past those lips before. Impressed, even in her agitation, she leaned her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands. But, Father, consider it practically. We want each other. There's ever so much money and nothing whatever in the way but sentiment. Let's bury the past, Father. His answer was a sigh. Besides, said Flora gently, you can't prevent us. I don't suppose, said Some's, that if left to myself, I should try to prevent you. I must put up with things I know to keep your affection. But it's not I who control this matter. That's what I want you to realize before it's too late. If you go on thinking you can get your way and encourage this feeling, the blow will be much heavier when you find you can't. Oh, cried Flora, help me, Father, you can help me, you know. Some's made a startled movement of negation. I, he said bitterly, help. I am the impediment, the just cause and impediment. Isn't that the jargon? You have my blood in your veins. He rose. Well, the fat's in the fire. If you persist in your willfulness, you'll have yourself to blame. Come, don't be foolish, my child, my only child. Flora laid her forehead against his shoulder. All was in such turmoil within her, but no good to show it, no good at all. She broke away from him and went out into the twilight, distraught but unconvinced. All was indeterminate and vague within her, like the shapes and shadows in the garden, except her will to have. A poplar pierced up into the dark blue sky and touched a white star there. The dew wetted her shoes and chilled her bare shoulders. She went down to the riverbank and stood gazing in a moon streak on the darkening water. Suddenly she smelled tobacco smoke and a white figure emerged as if created by the moon. It was young Mont and Flannels standing in his boat. She heard the tiny hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the water. Flora came his voice, don't be hard on a poor devil, I've been waiting hours. For what? Come in my boat. Not I. Why not? I'm not a water nymph. Haven't you any romance in you? Don't be modern, Flora. He appeared on the path within a yard of her. Go away. Flora, I love you. Flora. Flora uttered a short laugh. Come again, she said, when I haven't got my wish. What is your wish? Ask another. Flora said Mont and his voice sounded strange, don't mock me. Even vivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before they're cut up for good. Flora shook her head but her lips were trembling. Well you shouldn't make me jump, give me a cigarette. Mont gave her one, lighted it, and another for himself. I don't want to talk rot, he said, but please imagine all the rot that all the lovers that ever were have talked and all my special rot thrown in. Thank you, I have imagined it. Good night. They stood for a moment facing each other in the shadow of an acacia tree with very moonlit blossoms and the smoke from their cigarettes mingled in the air between them. Also ran. Michael Mont, he said. Flora turned abruptly toward the house. On the lawn she stopped to look back. Michael Mont was whirling his arms above him. She could see them dashing at his head, then waving at the moonlit blossoms of the acacia. His voice just reached her. Jolly, jolly, Flora shook herself. She couldn't help him. She had too much trouble of her own. On the veranda she stopped very suddenly again. Her mother was sitting in the drawing-room at her writing-barrow, quite alone. There was nothing remarkable in the expression of her face except its utter immobility. But she looked desolate. Flora went upstairs. At the door of her room she paused. She could hear her father walking up and down, up and down the picture gallery. Yes, she thought, jolly. Oh, John. Oh, John. End of part two, chapter nine. Recording by Leanne Howlett.