 Part 2, Chapter 10 of The Man of Property. It is in the nature of a foresight to be ignorant that he is a foresight, but Young Jolian was well aware of being one. He had not known it till after the decisive step which had made him an outcast. As then, the knowledge had been with him continually. He felt it throughout his alliance, throughout all his dealings with his second wife, who was emphatically not a foresight. He knew that if he had not possessed in great measure the eye for what he wanted, the tenacity to hold onto it, the sense of the folly of wasting that for which he had given so big a price—in other words, the sense of property—he could never have retained her, perhaps never would have desired to retain her with him throughout all the financial troubles, slights, and misconstructions of those fifteen years. Never have induced her to marry him on the death of his first wife. Never have lived it all through, and come up, as it were, thin, but smiling. He was one of those men who seated cross-legged like miniature Chinese idols in the cages of their own hearts, or ever smiling at themselves, a doubting smile. Not that this smile, so intimate and eternal, interfered with his actions, which, like his chin and his temperament, were quite a peculiar blend of softness and determination. He was conscious, too, of being a foresight in his work, that painting of water-colours to which he devoted so much energy, always with an eye on himself, as though he could not take so unpractical a pursuit quite seriously, and always with a queer uneasiness that he did not make more money at it. It was, then, this consciousness of what it meant to be a foresight that made him receive the following letter from old Jolian with a mixture of sympathy and disgust. Sheldrake House, Broad Stairs, July the 1st My dear Joe, the dad's handwriting had altered very little in the thirty-odd years that he remembered it. We have been here now fortnight, and have had good weather on the whole. The air is bracing, but my liver is out of order, and I shall be glad enough to get back to town. I cannot say much for June. Her health and spirits are very indifferent, and I don't see what is to come of it. She says nothing, but it is clear that she is harping on this engagement, which is an engagement and no engagement, and goodness knows what. I have grave doubts whether she ought to be allowed to return to London in the present state of affairs, but she is so self-willed that she might take it into her head to come up at any moment. The fact is, some one ought to speak to Bersinny and ascertain what he means. I am afraid of this myself, for I should certainly wrap him over the knuckles. But I thought that you, knowing him at the club, might put in a word, and get to ascertain what the fellow is about. You will, of course, in no way commit June. I shall be glad to hear from you in the course of a few days whether you have succeeded in gaining any information. The situation is very distressing to me. I worry about it at night. With my love to Jolly and Holly, I am your affectionate father, Jolyon Fawcite. Young Jolyon pondered this letter so long and seriously that his wife noticed his preoccupation and asked him what was the matter. He replied, nothing. It was a fixed principle with him never to allude to June. She might take alarm. He did not know what she might think. He hastened, therefore, to banish from his manner all traces of absorption. But in this he was about as successful as his father would have been, for he had inherited all old Jolyon's transparency in matters of domestic finesse, and young Mrs. Jolyon, busying herself over the affairs of the house, went about with tightened lips, stealing at him unfathomable looks. He started for the club in the afternoon with the letter in his pocket, and without having made up his mind. The sound of man, as to his intentions, was peculiarly unpleasant to him, nor did his own anomalous position diminish this unpleasantness. It was so like his family, so like all the people they knew and mixed with, to enforce what they called their rights over a man, to bring him up to the mark, so like them to carry their business principles into their private relations. And how that phrase in the letter, you will, of course, in no way commit Joon, gave the whole thing away. Yet the letter, with the personal grievance, the concern for Joon, the wrap over the knuckles, was all so natural. No wonder his father wanted to know what bus any meant, no wonder he was angry. It was difficult to refuse. But why give the thing to him to do? That was surely quite unbecoming. But so long as a foresight got what he was after, he was not too particular about the means providing appearances were saved. How should he set about it? Or how refuse? Both seemed impossible. So, young Jolyon, he arrived at the club at three o'clock, and the first person he saw was Bessini himself, seated in a corner, staring out of the window. Young Jolyon sat down not far off, and began nervously to reconsider his position. He looked covertly at Bessini, sitting there unconscious. He did not know him very well, and studied him attentively for perhaps the first time. An unusual-looking man, unlike in dress, face, and manner to most of the other members of the club, young Jolyon himself, however different he had become in mood and temper, had always retained the neat reticence of foresight appearance. He alone among foresight was ignorant of Bessini's nickname. The man was unusual, not eccentric, but unusual. He looked worn, too, haggard, hollow in the cheeks beneath those broad, high cheekbones, though without any appearance of ill health, for he was strongly built, with curly hair that seemed to show all the vitality of a fine constitution. Something in his face and attitude touched young Jolyon. He knew what suffering was like, and this man looked as if he were suffering. He got up and touched his arm. Bessini started, but exhibited no sign of embarrassment on seeing who it was. Young Jolyon sat down. I haven't seen you for a long time, he said. How are you getting on with my cousin's house? It'll be finished in about a week. I congratulate you. Thanks. I don't know that it's much of a subject for congratulation. No, queried young Jolyon, I should have thought you'd be glad to get a long job like that off your hands, but I suppose you'll feel it much as I do when I part with a picture, a sort of child. He looked kindly at Bessini. Yes, said the latter more cordially, he goes out from you and there's an end of it. I didn't know you painted. Only watercolours. I can't say I believe in my work. If you believe in it, then how can you do it? Works no use unless you believe in it?" Good, said Young Jolyon, it's exactly what I've always said. By the by, have you noticed that whenever one says good, one always adds, it's exactly what I've always said. But if you ask me how I do it, I answer, because I'm a foresight. A foresight, I never thought of you as one. A foresight, replied Young Jolyon, is not an uncommon animal. There are hundreds among the members of this club. Hundreds out there in the streets. You meet them wherever you go. And how do you tell them, may I ask, said Bessini? By their sense of property. A foresight takes a practical, one might say a common sense view of things, and a practical view of things is based fundamentally on a sense of property. A foresight, you will notice, never gives himself away. Joking? Young Jolyon's eye twinkled. Not much. As a foresight myself, I have no business to talk. But I'm a kind of thoroughbred mongrel now. There's no mistaking you. You're as different from me as I am from my uncle James, who is the perfect specimen of a foresight. His sense of property is extreme, while you have practically none. Without me in between, you would seem like a different species. I'm the missing link. We are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and I admit that it's a question of degree. But what I call a foresight is a man who is decidedly more than less a slave of property. He knows a good thing. He knows a safe thing, and his grip on property. It doesn't matter whether it be wives, houses, money, or reputation. It's his hallmark. Ah! Burbard Bassini, you should patent the word. I should like, said young Cholian, to lecture on it. Properties and quality of a foresight. This little animal, disturbed by the ridicule of his own sort, is unaffected in his motions by the laughter of strange creatures, you or I. Hereditorily disposed of myopia, he recognizes only the persons of his own species, among which he passes an existence of competitive tranquility. You talk of them, said Bassini, as if they were half England. They are, repeated young Cholian, half England, and the better half, too, the safe half, the three-percent half, the half that counts. It's their wealth and security that makes everything possible, make sure art possible, makes literature, science, even religion possible. Without foresight, who believe in none of these things and habitats, but turn them all to use? Where should we be? My dear sir, the foresight's are on the middlemen, the commercials, the pillars of society, the cornerstones of convention, everything that is admirable. I don't know whether I catch or drift, said Bassini, but I fancy there are plenty of foresight's, as you call them, in my profession. Certainly, replied young Cholian, the great majority of architects, painters or writers, have no principles like any other foresight's. Art, literature, religion, survive by virtue of the few cranks who really believe in such things, and the many foresight's who make a commercial use of them. At a low estimate, three-fourths of our Royal Academicians are foresight's, seven-eighths of our novelists, a large proportion of the press, of science I can't speak, they are magnificently represented in religion, in the House of Commons perhaps more numerous than anywhere. The aristocracy speaks for itself. But I'm not laughing, it is dangerous to go against the majority. And what a majority! He fixed his eyes on Bassini, it's dangerous to let anything carry you away, a house, a picture, a woman. They looked at each other. And though he had done that which no foresight did, given himself away, young Cholian drew into his shell. Bassini broke the silence. Why do you take your own people as the type? said he. My people, replied young Cholian, are not very extreme, and they have their own private peculiarities like every other family. But they possess in remarkable degree those two qualities which are the real tests of a foresight, the power of never being able to give yourself up to anything, soul and body, and the sense of property. Bassini smiled. How about the big one, for instance? Do you mean Swithin? asked young Cholian. Ah! In Swithin there is something primeval still. The town and middle-class life haven't digested him yet. All the old centuries of farm-work and brute force have settled in him, and there they've stuck, for all he's so distinguished. Bassini seemed to ponder, well, you've hit your cousin soams off to the life, he said, suddenly, he'll never blow his brains out. Young Cholian shot at him a penetrating glance. No, he said, he won't. That's why he's to be reckoned with. Look out for their grip. It's easy to laugh, but don't mistake me. It doesn't do to despise a foresight. It doesn't do to disregard them. Yet you've done it yourself. Young Cholian acknowledged the hit by losing his smile. You forget, he said, with a queer pride. I can hold on too. I'm a foresight myself. We're all in the path of great forces. The man who leaves the shelter of the wall—well, you know what I mean. I don't, he ended, very low, as though uttering a threat. Recommend every man to go my way. It depends. The colour rushed into Bessini's face, but soon receded, leaving it sallow-brown as before. He gave a short laugh, but left his lips fixed in a queer, fierce smile. His eyes mocked Young Cholian. Thanks, he said, it's just kind of you. But you're not the only chaps that can hold on. He rose. Young Cholian looked after him as he walked away, and resting his head on his hand side. In the drowsy, almost empty room, the only sounds were the rustle of newspapers, the scraping of matches being struck. He stayed a long time without moving, living over again those days when he, too, had sat long hours watching the clock, waiting for the minutes to pass. Long hours full of the torments of uncertainty, and of a fierce, sweet aching, and the slow, delicious agony of that season came back to him with its old poignancy. The sight of Bessini with his haggard face, and his restless eyes, always wandering to the clock, had aroused in him a pity, with which was mingled strange, irresistible envy. He knew the signs so well. Wither was he going, to what sort of fate, what kind of woman was it who was drawing him to her by that magnetic force, which no consideration of honour, no principle, no interest could withstand, from which the only escape was flight. Flight? But why should Bessini fly? A man fled when he was in danger of destroying hearth and home, when there were children, when he felt himself trampling down ideals, breaking something. But here, so he had heard, it was all broken to his hand. He himself had not fled, nor would he fly, if it were all to go over again. Yet he had gone further than Bessini, had broken up his own unhappy home, not someone else's, and the old saying came back to him, a man's fate lies in his own heart. In his own heart the proof of the pudding was in the eating, Bessini still had to eat his pudding. His thoughts passed to the woman, the woman whom he did not know, but the outline of whose story he had heard. An unhappy marriage, no ill treatment, only that indefinable malaise, that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under heaven, and so from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from year to year, till death should end it. But young Jolian, the bitterness of whose own feelings time had assuaged, saw Somes' side of the question too. When should a man like his cousin, saturated with all the prejudices and beliefs of his class, draw the insight or inspiration necessary to break up his life? It was a question of imagination, of projecting himself into the future beyond the unpleasant gossips, sneers, and tattles that followed on such separations, beyond the passing pangs that the lack of sight of her would cause, beyond the grave disapproval of the worthy. But few men, and especially few men of Somes' class, had imagination enough for that. A deal of mortals in this world, and not enough imagination to go round. And sweet heaven, what a difference between theory and practice. Many a man, perhaps even Somes, held chivalrous views on such matters, who, when the shoe pinched, found a distinguishing factor that made, of himself, an exception. Then too he distrusted his judgment. He had been through the experience himself, had tasted too the dregs of the bitterness of an unhappy marriage. And how could he take the wide and dispassionate view of those who had never been within sound of the battle? His evidence was too first-hand, like the evidence on military matters of a soldier who has been through much active service against that of civilians who have not suffered the disadvantage of seeing things too close. Most people would consider such a marriage as that of Somes and Irene quite fairly successful. He had money, she had beauty. It was a case for compromise. There was no reason why they should not jog along, even if they hated one another. It would not matter if they went their own ways a little, so long as the decencies were observed, the sanctity of the marriage-tie, of the common home, respected. Half the marriages of the upper classes were conducted on these lines. Do not offend the susceptibilities of society. Do not offend the susceptibilities of the church. To avoid offending these is worth the sacrifice of any private feelings. The advantages of the stable home are visible, tangible, so many pieces of property, there is no risk in the status quo. To break up a home is at the best a dangerous experiment and selfish into the bargain. This was the case for the defense and Young Jolion's side. The core of it all, he thought, is property. But there are many people who would not like it put that way. To them it is the sanctity of the marriage-tie. But the sanctity of the marriage-tie is dependent on the sanctity of the family, and the sanctity of the family is dependent on the sanctity of property. And yet I imagine all these people are followers of one who never owned anything. It is curious. And again Young Jolion's side. Am I going on my way home to ask any poor devils I meet to share my dinner, which will then be too little for myself, or at all events for my wife, who is necessary to my health and happiness? It may be that after all, Somes does well to exercise his rights and support by his practice the sacred principle of property, which benefits us all, with the exception of those who suffer by the process. And so he left his chair, threaded his way through the maze of seats, took his hat, and languidly up the hot streets crowded with carriages, reeking with dusty odours, when did his way home. Before reaching Wisteria Avenue he removed Old Jolion's letter from his pocket, and tearing it carefully into tiny pieces scattered them in the dust of the road. He let himself in with his key, and called his wife's name. But she had gone out, taking jolly and holly, and the house was empty. Alone in the garden the dog-baltazar lay in the shade, snapping at flies. Young Jolion took his seat there, too, under the pear-tree, that bore no fruit. End of Part 2, CHAPTER X The day after the evening at Richmond, Psalms returned from Henley by a morning train. Not constitutionally interested in amphibious sports, his visit had been one of business rather than pleasure, a client of some importance having asked him down. He went straight to the city, but finding things slack, he left at three o'clock, glad of this chance to get home quietly. Irene did not expect him. Not that he had any desire to spy on her actions, but there was no harm in thus unexpectedly surveying the scene. After changing to park clothes, he went into the drawing-room. She was sitting idly in the corner of the sofa, her favorite seat, and there were circles under her eyes as though she had not slept. He asked, How was it you're in? Are you expecting somebody? Yes. That is not particularly. Who? Mr. Besenny said he might come. Besenny, he ought to be at work. To this she made no answer. Well, said Psalms, I want you to come out to the stores with me, and after that we'll go to the park. I don't want to go out, I have a headache. Psalms replied, If ever I want you to do anything, you've always got a headache, it'll do you good to come and sit under the trees. She did not answer. Psalms was silent for some minutes. At last he said, I don't know what your idea of a wife's duty is, I never have known. He had not expected her to reply, but she did. I have tried to do what you want, it's not my fault that I haven't been able to put my heart into it. Whose fault is it then? He watched her askance. Before we were married you promised to let me go if our marriage was not a success. Is it a success? Psalms frowned. Success, he stammered. It would be a success if you behaved yourself properly. I have tried, said Irene. Will you let me go? Psalms turned away, secretly alarmed, he took refuge in bluster. Let you go. You don't know what you're talking about. Let you go. How can I let you go? We're married, aren't we? Then what are you talking about? For God's sake, don't let's have any of this sort of nonsense. Get your hat on and come and sit in the park. Then you won't let me go? He felt her eyes resting on him with a strange touching look. Let you go, he said. And what on earth would you do with yourself if I did? You've got no money. I could manage somehow. He took a swift turn up and down the room, then came and stood before her. Understand, he said, once and for all, I won't have you say this sort of thing. Go and get your hat on. She did not move. I suppose, said Psalms, you don't want to miss Bessini if he comes. Irene got up slowly and left the room. She came down with her hat on. They went out. In the park, the motley hour of mid-afternoon, when forerunners and other pathetic folk drive, thinking themselves to be in fashion, had passed. The right, the proper hour had come, was nearly gone before Psalms and Irene seated themselves under the Achilles statue. It was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the park. That was one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his married life, when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious creature before all London had been his greatest, though secret, pride. How many afternoons had he not sat beside her, extremely neat, with light gray gloves and faint supercilious smile, nodding to acquaintances, and now and again removing his hat. His light gray gloves were still on his hands and on his lips his smile sordonic, but wear the feeling in his heart. The seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent and pale, as though to work out a secret punishment. Once or twice he made some comment, and she bent her head or answered, Yes, with a tired smile. Along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared after him when he passed. Look at that ass, said Psalms. He must be mad to walk like that in this heat. He turned. Irene had made a rapid movement. Hello, he said, it's our friend the buccaneer. And he sat still with his sneering smile, conscious that Irene was sitting still and smiling, too. Was she bowed to him, he thought? But she made no sign. Bessini reached the end of the rails and came walking back amongst the chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer. When he saw them he stopped dead and raised his hat. The smile never left Psalms' face. He also took off his hat. Bessini came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard physical exercise. The sweat stood and drops on his brow, and Psalms' smile seemed to say, You've had a trying time, my friend. What are you doing in the park? He asked. We thought you'd aspire such frivolity. Bessini did not seem to hear. He made his answer to Irene. I've been round to your place. I hoped I should find you in. Somebody tapped Psalms on the back and spoke to him. And in the exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her answer and took a resolution. We're just going in, he said to Bessini. You'd better come back to dinner with us. And to that invitation he put a strange bravado, a stranger pathos. You can't deceive me, his looking voice seemed saying. But see, I trust you. I'm not afraid of you. They started back to Montpelier Square together, Irene between them. In the crowded streets, Psalms went on in front. He did not listen to their conversation. The strange resolution of trustfulness he had taken seemed to animate even his secret conduct. Like a gambler, he said to himself, it's a card I dare not throw away. I must play it for what it's worth. I have not too many chances. He dressed slowly, heard her leave her room, and go downstairs. And for full five minutes after, dawdled about in his dressing room. Then he went down, purposely shutting the door loudly to show that he was coming. He found them standing by the hearth, perhaps talking, perhaps not, he could not say. He played his part out in the farce, the long evening through, his manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been before. And when at last Pasenny went, he said, you must come again soon. Irene likes to have you to talk about the house. Again his voice had the strange bravado and the stranger pathos. But his hand was cold as ice. Loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, turned away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to say good night, away from the sight of her golden head shining so under the light, of her smiling mournful lips, away from the sight of Pasenny's eyes looking at her, so like a dog's looking at its master. And he went to bed with a certainty that Pasenny was in love with his wife. The summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every opened window came in but hotter air. For long hours he lay listening to her breathing. She could sleep but he must lie awake. And lying away he hardened himself to play the part of the serene and trusting husband. In the small hours he slipped out of bed and passing into his dressing room leaned by the open window. He could hardly breathe. A night four years ago came back to him, the night but one before his marriage as hot and stifling as this. He remembered how he had lain in a long cane chair in the window of his sitting room off Victoria Street. Down below in a side street a man had banged at a door, a woman had cried out. He remembered as though it were now the sound of the scuffle, the slam of the door, the dead silence that followed. And then the early water cart, cleansing the reek of the streets, had approached through the strange seeming useless lamp light. He seemed to hear again its rumble nearer and nearer till it passed and slowly died away. He leaned far out of the dressing room window over the little court below and saw the first light spread. The outlines of dark walls and roofs were blurred for a moment, then came out sharper than before. He remembered how that other night he had watched the lamps pailing all the length of Victoria Street, how he had hurried on his clothes and gone down into the street, down past houses and squares, to the street where she was staying, and there had stood and looked at the front of the little house as still and gray as the face of a dead man. And suddenly it shot through his mind like a sick man's fancy. What's he doing? That fellow who haunts me, who was here this evening, who's in love with my wife, prowling out there perhaps, looking for her as I know he was looking for her this afternoon, watching my house now for all I can tell. He sold across the landing to the front of the house, stealthily drew aside a blind and raised a window. The gray light clung about the trees of the square as though night like a great downy moth had brushed them with her wings. The lamps were still a light, all pale, but not a soul stirred, no living thing in sight. Yet suddenly, very faint, far off in the deathly stillness, he heard a cry writhing, like the voice of some wandering soul barred out of heaven and crying for its happiness. There it was again, again, some shut the window, shuttering. Then he thought, ah, it's only the peacocks across the water. End of Part 2, Chapter 11. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Part 2, Chapter 12. The Man of Property. 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 Eva Harnick. The Foresight Saga. The Man of Property. By John Gorswersy. Part 2, Chapter 12. June Pays Some Cause. Jolien stood in the narrow hall at Broad Stairs, inhaling that odour of oil cloths and herrings, which permeates all respectable seaside lodging houses. On a chair, a shiny leather chair, displaying its horse hair through a hole in the top left corner, stood a black dispatch case. This he was filling with papers, with the times and the bottle of odour cologne. He had meetings that day, of the globular gold concessions and the new Colliery Company Limited, to which he was going up, for he never missed a board. To miss a board would be one more piece of evidence that he was growing old, and this his jealous foresight spirit could not bear. His eyes, as he filled that black dispatch case, looked as if at any moment they might blaze up with anger. So gleams the eye of a schoolboy, baited by a ring of his companions. But he controls himself, deterred by the fearful odds against him. And old Jolian controlled himself, keeping down with his masterful restraint, now slowly wearing out the irritation fostered in him by the conditions of his life. He had received from his son an unpractical letter, in which, by rambling generalities, the boy seemed to try to get out of answering a plain question. I have seen Bosini, he said, he's not a criminal. The more I see of people, the more I am convinced that they are never good or bad, merely comic or pathetic. You probably don't agree with me. Old Jolian did not. He considered it cynical to so express oneself. He had not yet reached that point of old age when even foresight, bereft of those illusions and principles which they have cherished carefully for practical purposes but never believed in, bereft of all corporeal enjoyment, stricken to the very heart by having nothing left to hope for, break through the barriers of reserve and say things they would never have believed themselves capable of saying. Perhaps he did not believe in goodness and badness any more than his son. But, as he would have said, he didn't know, couldn't tell. There might be something in it. And why, by an unnecessary expression of disbelief, deprive yourself of possible advantage. A custom to spend his holidays among the mountains, though, like a true foresight, he had never attempted anything too adventurous or too full-hardy. He had been passionately fond of them. And when the wonderful view mentioned in Bedecker, fatiguing but repaying, was disclosed to him after the effort of the climb, he had doubtless felt the existence of some great dignified principle, crowning the chaotic strivings, the petty precipices and ironic little dark chasms of life. This was as near to religion perhaps as his practical spirit had ever gone. But it was many years since he had been to the mountains. He had taken June there two seasons running after his wife died and had realized bitterly that his walking days were over. To that old mountain, given confidence in a supreme order of sinks, he had long been a stranger. He knew himself to be old, yet he felt young, and this troubled him. It troubled and puzzled him too to think that he, who had always been so careful, should be father and grandfather to such a seemed born to disaster. He had nothing to say against Joe, who could say anything against the boy an amiable chap, but his position was deplorable and this business of June's nearly as bad. It seemed like a fatality and the fatality was one of those things no man of his character could either understand or put up with. In writing to his son, he did not really hope that anything would come of it. Since the ball at Rogers, he had seen too clearly how the land lay, he could put two and two together quicker than most men, and with the example of his own son before his eyes, knew better than any foresight of them all, that the pale flame singes man's wings whether they will or know. In the days before June's engagement, when she and Mrs. Somes were always together, he had seen enough of Irene to fill the spell she cast over man. She was not a flirt, not even a coquette. Words dear to the heart of his generation which love to define things by a good, broad, inadequate word, but she was dangerous. He could not say why. Tell him of equality innate in some women a seductive power beyond their own control. He would but answer, humbug. She was dangerous, and there was an end of it. He wanted to close his eyes to that affair. If it was, it was. He did not want to hear any more about it. He only wanted to save June's position and her peace of mind. He still hoped she might once more become a comfort to himself. And so he had written. He got little enough out of the answer. As to what young Julian had made of the interview, there was practically only the queer sentence. I gather that he is in the stream. The stream. What stream? What was this newfangled way of talking? He sighed and folded the last of the papers under the flap of the bag. He knew well enough what was meant. June came out of the dining room and helped him on with his summer coat. From her costume and the expression of her little resolute face, he saw at once what was coming. I'm going with you, she said. Nonsense, my dear, I go straight into the city. I can't have you rucketing about. I must see old Mrs. Meach. Oh, your precious lame ducks grumbled out old Julian. He did not believe her excuse but ceased his opposition. There was no doing anything with that pertinacity of hers. At Victoria he put her into the carriage which had been ordered for himself. A characteristic action for he had no petty selfishness. Now don't you go tiring yourself, my darling, he said and took a cab on into the city. June went first the back street in Paddington where Mrs. Meach, her lame duck, lived an aged person connected with the charming interest. But after half an hour spent in hearing her habitually lamentable recital and dragooning her into temporary comfort she went on to Stanhope Gate. The great house was closed and dark. She had decided to learn something at all costs. It was better to face the worst and have it over. And this was her plan to go first to fill out Mrs. Baines and filling information there to Irene herself. She had no clear notion of what she would gain by these visits. At three o'clock she was in Lawn Square. With a woman's instinct when trouble is to be faced she had put on her best frock and went to the battle with a glance as courageous as all Jolians itself. Her tremors had passed into eagerness. Mrs. Baines, boss in his aunt, Louisa was her name, was in her kitchen when June was announced organizing the cook for she was an excellent housewife and as Baines always said there was a lot in a good dinner. He did his best work after dinner. It was Baines who built that remarkably fine row of tall crimson houses in Kensington which compete with so many others with the title of the ugliest in London. On hearing June's name she went hurriedly to her bedroom and taking two large bracelets from a red Morocco case in a locked drawer put them on her white wrists for she possessed in a remarkable degree that sense of property which as we know is the touchstone of foresightism and the foundation of good morality. Her figure of medium height and broad build with a tendency to embon point was reflected by the mirror of her whitewood wardrobe in a gown made under her own organization or one of those half tints reminiscent of the distempered walls of corridors in large hotels. She raised her hands to her head which she wore a la Princess de Gaulle's and touched it here and there settling it more firmly on her head and her eyes were full of an unconscious realism as though she were looking in the face of one of life's sordid facts and making the best of it. In use her cheeks had been of cream and roses but they were mottled now by middle age and again that hard ugly directness came into her eyes as she depth a powder puff across her forehead. Putting the puff down she stood quite still before the glass arranging a smile over her high important nose her chin never large and now growing smaller with the increase of her neck her sin-lipped down drooping mouth. Quickly not to lose the effect she grasped her skirt strongly in both hands and went downstairs. She had been hoping for this visit for some time past whispers had reached her that things were not all right between her nephew and his fiance. Neither of them had been near her for weeks. She had asked Phil to dinner many times his invariable answer had been too busy. Her instinct was alarmed and the instinct in such matters of this excellent woman was keen. She ought to have been a foresight. In young Gaulle's sense of the word she certainly had the privilege and merits description as such. She had married of her three daughters in a way that people said was beyond their desserts for they had the professional plainness only to be found as a rule among the female kind of the more legal callings. Her name was upon the committees of numberless charities connected with the church dances, theatricals or bazaars and she never lent her name unless sure beforehand that everything had been subtly organized. She believed as she often said in putting things on a commercial basis the proper function of the church of charity indeed of everything was to strengthen the fabric of society. Individual action therefore she considered immoral. Organization was the only thing for by organization alone could you feel sure that you were getting a return for your money. Organization and again organization and there is no doubt that she was what old Jolion called her a debit debt. He went further he called her a humbug. The enterprises to which she lent her name were organized so admirably that by the time the takings were handed over they were indeed skim milk divested of all cream of human kindness. But as she often justly remarked sentiment was to be deprecated. She was in fact a little academic. This great and good woman so highly sort of in ecclesiastical circles was one of the principal priestesses in the temple of foresightism keeping alive day and night a sacred flame to the God of property whose altar is inscribed with those inspiring words nothing for nothing and really remarkably little for six pence. When she entered the room it was felt that something substantial had come in which was probably the reason of her popularity as a patroness. People liked something substantial when they had paid money for it and they would look at her surrounded by her staff in charity ballrooms with her high nose and her broad square figure attired in a uniform covered with sequins as though she were a general. The only thing against her was that she had not a double name. She was a power in upper middle class society with its hundred sets and circles all intersecting on the common battlefield of charity functions and on that battlefield brushing skirts so pleasantly with the skirts of society with the capital S. She was a power in society with the smaller S that larger, more significant and more powerful body where the commercially Christian institutions Maxims and principal which Mrs. Bains embodied were real lifeblood circulating freely real business currency not merely the sterilized imitation that flowed in the veins of smaller society with the larger S. People who knew her felt her to be sound a sound woman who never gave herself away nor anything else if she could possibly help it. She had been on the worst sort of terms with Bosini's father who had not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable ridicule. She alluded to him now that he was gone as her poor dear irreverent brother. She greeted June with the careful effusion of which she was a mistress a little afraid of her as far as a woman of her eminence in the commercial and Christian world could be afraid for so slight a girl June had a great dignity the fearlessness of her eyes gave her that and Mrs. Bains too shrewdly recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness of June's manner there was much of the foresight. If the girl had been merely frank and courageous Mrs. Bains would have sought her cranky and despised her. If she had been merely a foresight like Francie let us say she would have patronized her from sheer weight of metal but June, small though she was Mrs. Bains' habitually admired quantity gave her an uneasy feeling and she placed her in a chair opposite the light. There was another reason for respect which Mrs. Bains too good a church woman to be worldly would have been the last to admit. She often heard her husband describe old Julian as extremely well off and was biased towards his granddaughter for the soundest of all reasons. Today she felt the emotion with which we read a novel describing a hero and an inheritance nervously anxious lest by some frightful laughs of the novelist the young man should be left without it at the end. Her manner was warm. She had never seen so clearly before how distinguished and desirable a girl this was. She asked after old Julian's house a wonderful man for his age so upright and young looking How old was he? Eighty-one. She would never have sought it. They were at the sea very nice for them. She supposed June heard from Phil every day. Her light gray eyes became more prominent as she asked this question but the girl met the glance without flinching. No, she said he never writes. Mrs. Bains' eyes dropped they had no intention of doing so but they did. They recovered immediately. Of course not. That's Phil all over. He was always like that. Was he? said June. The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Bains' bright smile and moments hesitation. She disguised it by a quick movement and spreading her skirts afresh said why my dear, he's quite the most harum scarum person one never pays the slightest attention to what he does. The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her time even were she to put a question point blank she would never get anything out of this woman. Do you see him? She asked her face crimsoning. The perspiration broke out and Mrs. Bains forehead beneath the powder. Oh yes, I don't remember when he was here last. Indeed, we haven't seen much of him lately. He's so busy with your cousin's house I am told it will be finished directly. We must organize a little dinner to celebrate the event. Do come and stay the night with us. Thank you, said June. Again she thought I am only wasting my time. This woman will tell me nothing. She got up to go. A change came over Mrs. Bains. She rose too. Her lips twitched. She fidgeted her hands. Something was evidently very wrong and she did not dare to ask this girl who stood there a slim straight little figure with her decided face her sad jaw and resentful eyes. She was not accustomed to be afraid of asking questions. All organization was based on the asking of questions. But the issue was so grave that her nerve normally strong and fairly shaken. Only that morning her husband had said old Mr. Forsyte must be worse well over a hundred thousand pounds. And this girl stood there holding out her hand holding out her hand. The chance might be slipping away. She couldn't tell the chance of keeping her in the family yet she dared not speak. Her eyes followed June to the door. It closed. Then with an exclamation Mrs. Bains run forward wobbling her bulky frame from side to side and opened it again. Too late. She heard the front door click and stood still an expression of real anger and mortification on her face. June went along the square with her bird-like quickness. She detested that woman now whom in happier days she had been accustomed to sing so kind. Was she always to be put off thus and forced to undergo this torturing suspense? She would go to fill himself and ask him what he meant. She had the right to know. She hurried on down Sloan Street till she came to Bosnia's number. Passing the swing door at the bottom she ran up the stairs her heart thumping painfully. At the top of the third flight she posed for breath and holding onto the bannisters stood listening. No sound came from above. With a very wide face she mounted the last flight. She saw the door with his name on the plate and the resolution that had brought her so far evaporated. The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all over. The palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk covering of her gloves. She drew back to the stairs but did not descend. Standing against the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked and she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful courage. No, she refused to go down. Did it matter what people thought of her? They would never know. No one would help her if she did not help herself. She would go through with it. Forcing herself therefore to leave the support of the wall she rang the bell. The door did not open and all her shame and fear suddenly abandoned her. She rang again and again as though in spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that closed room. Some recompense for the shame and fear that visit had cost her. It did not open. She left of ringing and sitting down at the top of the stairs buried her face in her hands. Presently she stole down out into the air. She felt as though she had passed through a bad illness and had no desire now but to get home as quickly as she could. The people she met seemed to know where she had been what she had been doing and suddenly over on the opposite side going towards his rooms from the direction of Montpellier Square she saw Bosini himself. She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met and he raised his hat. An omnibus passed obscuring her view then from the edge of the pavement through a gap in the traffic she saw him walking on and June stood motionless looking after him. End of part 2 chapter 12 June pays some calls recording by Eva Harnick. Part 2 chapter 13 of the Man of Property. 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 Eva Harnick. The foresight saga The Man of Property by John Gorswersy. Part 2 chapter 13 Perfection of the House. One mock turtle clear. One ox tail. Two glasses of port. In the upper room at French's where a foresight could still get heavy English food James and his son were sitting down to lunch. Of all eating places James liked best to come here. There was something unpretentious, well-flavored and filling about it and though he had been to a certain extent corrupted by the necessity for being fashionable and the trend of habits keeping pace with an income that would increase he still anchored in quiet city moments after the tasty fleshpots of his earlier days. Here you were served by hairy English waiters in aprons. There was so dust on the floor and three round gilt looking glasses hung just above the line of sight. They had only recently done away with the cubicles too in which you could have your chop prime chump with a flowery potato without seeing your neighbors like a gentleman. He tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of his waistcoat a practice he had been obliged to abandon years ago in the West End. He felt that he should relish his soup. The entire morning had been given to winding up the old friend. After filling his mouth with household bread, stale he at once began how are you going down to Robin Hill? You going to take Irene? You had better take her. I should think there will be a lot that we'll want seeing too. Without looking up, Somes answered she won't go. Won't go? What's the meaning of that? She's going to live in the house. Isn't she? Somes made no reply. I don't know what's coming to women nowadays Mumble James. I never used to have any trouble with them. She has had too much liberty. She is spoiled. Somes lifted his eyes. I won't have anything said against her. Unexpectedly the silence was only broken now by the souping of James's soup. The waiter brought the two glasses of port, but Somes stopped him. That's not the way to serve port, he said. Take them away and bring the bottle. Rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, James took one of his rapid rounds of surrounding facts. Your mother is in bed, he said. You can have the carriage to take you down. I should think Irina would like the drive. This young Bosny will be there. I suppose to show you over. Somes nodded. I should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he has made finishing off, pursued James. I will just drive round and pick you both up. I am going down by train, replied Somes. If you like to drive round and see, Irina might go with you. I can't tell. He signed to the waiter to bring the bill, which James paid. They parted at St. Paul's, Somes branching off to the station, James taking his omnibus westwards. He had secured the corner seat next to the conductor, where his long legs made it difficult for anyone to get in, and at all who passed him, he looked resentfully as if they had no business to be using up his air. He intended to take an opportunity this afternoon of speaking to Irina. A word in time saved nine, and now that she was going to live in the country, there was a chance for her to turn over a new leaf. He could see that Somes would not stand very much more of her goings on. It did not occur to him to define what he meant by her goings on. The expression was wide, vague, and suited to a foresight, and James had more than his common share of courage after lunch. On reaching home, he ordered out the barouche with special instructions that the groom was to go to. He wished to be kind to her, and to give her every chance. When the door of No. 62 was opened, he could distinctly hear her singing and set so at once to prevent any chance of being denied entrance. This Somes was in, but the maid did not know if she was seeing people. James, moving with the rapidity that ever astonished the observers of his long figure, and absorbed expression went force-whisk into the drawing room without permitting this to be a certain. He found Irene seated at the piano with her hands arrested on the keys, and heard the voices in the hall. She greeted him without smiling. Your mother-in-law is in bed, he began, hoping at once to enlist her sympathy. I have got the carriage here. Now be a good girl and put on your hat and come with me for a drive. It will do you good. Irene looked at him as though about to refuse, but seeming to change her mind went upstairs and came down again with her hat on. Where are you going to take me? She asked. We will just go down to Robin Hill, said James, spluttering out his words very quick. The horses want exercise and I should like to see what they have been doing down there. Irene hung back but again changed her mind and went out to the carriage, James brooding over her closely to make quite sure. It was not before he had got her more than half way that he began. Soames is very fond of you. He won't have anything said against you. Why don't you show him more affection? Irene flushed and said in a low voice, I can't show what I haven't got. James looked at her sharply. He felt that now he had her in his own carriage with his own horses and servants. He was really in command of the situation. She could not put him off nor would she make a scene in public. I can't think what you are about, he said. He's a very good husband. Irene's answer was so low as to be almost inaudible amongst the sounds of traffic. He caught the words. You are not married to him. What has that got to do with it? He has given you everything you want. He's always ready to take you anywhere and now he has built you this house in the country. It is not as if you had nothing of your own. No. Again James looked at her. He could not make out the expression on her face. She looked almost as if she were going to cry and yet I'm sure he muttered hastily. We have all tried to be kind to you. Irene's lips quivered to his dismay. James saw a tear down her cheek. He felt a choke rise in his own throat. We are all fond of you, he said, if you would only. He was going to say behave yourself but changed it to if you would only be more of a wife to him. Irene did not answer and James too ceased speaking. There was something in her silence which disconcerted him. It was not the silence of obstinacy rather that of acquiescence in all that he could find to say and yet he felt as if he had not had the last word. He couldn't understand this. He was unable however to long keep silence. I suppose that young lady, he said, will be getting married to June now. Irene's face changed. I don't know, she said, you should ask her. Does she write to you? No. How's that, said James. I thought you and she were such great friends. Irene turned on him. Again, she said, you should ask her. Well, flustered James frightened by her look. It is very odd that I can't get a plain answer to a plain question, but there it is. He sat ruminating over his rebuff and burst out at last. Well, I have warned you. You won't look ahead. Somes, he doesn't say much but I can see he won't stand a great deal more of this sort of thing. You have nobody but yourself to blame and what is more you will get no sympathy from anybody. Irene bent her head with a little smiling bow. I'm very much obliged to you. James did not know what on earth to answer. The bright hot morning had changed slowly to a gray oppressive afternoon. A heavy bank of clouds with yellow tinge of coming thunder had risen in the south and was creeping up. The branches of the trees dropped motionless across the road without the smallest stir of foliage. A faint odor of glue from the heated horses clung in the thick air. The coachman and groom rigid and unbending exchanged stealthy murmurs on the box without ever turning their heads. To James's great relief they reached the house at last. The silence and impenetrability of this woman by his side whom he had always sought so soft and mild alarmed him. The carriage put them down at the door and they entered. The hall was cool and so still that it was like passing into a tomb. A shudder run down James's spine. He quickly lifted the heavy leather curtains between the columns into the inner court. He could not restrain an exclamation of approval. The decoration was really in excellent taste. The dull ruby tiles that extended from the foot of the walls to the verge of a circular clump of tall Irish plants surrounding in turn a sunken basin of white marble filled with water were obviously of the best quality. He admired extremely the purple leather curtains drawn along one entire side framing a huge white tile stove. The central partitions of the skylight had been slid and the warm air from outside penetrated into the very heart of the house. He stood his hands behind him his head bent back on his high narrow shoulders spying the tracery on the columns and the pattern of the frieze which run round ivory colored walls under the gallery. Evidently no pains had been spared. It was quite the house of a gentleman. He went up to the curtains and having discovered how they were worked drew them asunder and disclosed the picture gallery ending in a great window taking up the whole end of the room. It had a black oak floor and its walls again were of ivory white. He went on throwing open doors and peeping in. Everything was in apple pie order ready for immediate occupation. He turned round at last to speak to Irene and saw her standing over in the garden entrance with her husband and Bosini. Though not remarkable for sensibility, James felt at once that something was wrong. He went up to them and vaguely and ignorant of the nature of the trouble made an attempt to smooth things over. How are you, Mr. Bosini? He said holding out his hand. You have been spending money pretty freely down here, I should say. Some turned his back and walked away. James looked from Bosini's frowning face to Irene and in his agitation spoke his thoughts aloud. Well, I can't tell what's the matter. Nobody tells me anything. And making off after his son he heard Bosini's short laugh and his well, thank God you look so most unfortunately he lost the rest. What had happened? He glanced back. Irene was very close to the architect and her face not like the face he knew of her. He hastened up to his son. Somes was facing the picture gallery. What is the matter? said James. What is all this? Somes looked at him with his supercilious calm unbroken, but James knew well enough that he was violently angry. So a friend, he said, has exceeded his instructions again. That is all. So much the worse for him this time. He turned round and walked back towards the door. James followed hurriedly, edging himself in front. He saw Irene take her finger from before her lips, heard her say something in her ordinary voice and began to speak as he reached them. There is a storm coming on. We had better get home. We can't take you, I suppose, Mr. Bosini. No, I suppose not. Then, goodbye, he held out his hand. Bosini did not take it, but turning with a laugh said Goodbye, Mr. Forsythe. Don't get caught in the storm and walked away. Well, began James. But the sight of Irene's face stopped him. Taking hold of his daughter-in-law by the elbow, he escorted her towards the carriage. He felt certain, quite certain, they had been making some appointment or other. Nothing in this world is more sure to upset a foresight than the discovery that something on which he has stipulated to spend a certain sum has cost more. And this is reasonable for upon the accuracy of his estimates, the whole policy of his life is ordered. If he cannot rely on definite values of property, his compass is amiss. He is adrift upon bitter waters without the helm. After writing to Bosini in the terms that have already been chronicled, Somes had dismissed the cost of the house from his mind. He believed that he had made the matter of the final cost so very plain, that the possibility of its being again exceeded had really never entered his head. On hearing from Bosini that his limit of 12,000 pounds would be exceeded by something 400, he had grown white with anger. His original estimate of the cost of the house completed had been 10,000 pounds, and he had often blamed himself severely for allowing himself to be led into repeated excesses. Over this last expenditure, however, Bosini had put himself completely in the wrong. In earth a fellow could make such an ass of himself, Somes could not conceive, but he had done so and all the rancour and hidden jealousy that had been burning against him for so long was now focused in rage at this crowning piece of extravagance. The attitude of the confident and friendly husband was gone. The property his wife he had assumed it to preserve property of another kind he lost it now. Ach, he said to Bosini when he could speak and I suppose you are perfectly contented with yourself but I may as well tell you that you have altogether mistaken your man. What he meant by those words he didn't quite know at the time but after dinner he looked up the correspondence between himself and Bosini to make quite sure there could be no two opinions about it. The fellow had made himself lawful for that extra 400 or at all events for 350 of it and he would have to make it good. He was looking at his wife's face when he came to this conclusion. Seated in her usual seat on the sofa she was altering the lace on a collar. She had not once spoken to him all the evening. He went up to the mantelpiece and contemplating his face in the mirror said your friend the Buccaneer has made a fool of himself he will have to pay for it. She looked at him and said I don't know what you are talking about you soon will a mere trifle quite beneath your contempt 400 pounds do you mean that you are going to make him pay towards this hateful house I do and you know he has got nothing yes then you are meaner than I sought you some turned from the mirror and unconsciously taking a china cup from the mantelpiece clasped his hands around it as though praying he saw her bosom rise and fall her eyes darkening with anger and take no notice of the taunt he asked quietly are you carrying on a flirtation with bosony no I am not her eyes met his and he looked away he neither believed nor disbelieved her but he knew that he had made a mistake in asking he never had known never would know what she was thinking the sight of her inscrutable face the sort of all the hundreds of evenings he had seen her sitting there like that soft and passive unreadable unknown and raged him beyond measure I believe you are made of stone he said clenching his fingers so hard that he broke the fragile cup the pieces fell into the grate and Irene smiled you seem to forget she said that cup is not some script her arm a good beating he said I really think that would bring you to your senses a turning on his heel he left the room and the part 2 chapter 13 the perfection of the house reading by Ava Harnick part 2 chapter 14 of the man of property this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Ava Harnick the foresight saga the man of property by John Goldsworthy part 2 chapter 14 Soames sits on the stairs Soames went upstairs that night that he had gone too far he was prepared to offer excuses for his words he turned out the gas still burning in the passage outside their room pausing with his hand on the knob of the door he tried to shape his apology for he had no intention of letting her see that he was nervous but the door did not open nor when he pulled it and turned the handle firmly she must have locked it for some reason and forgotten entering his dressing room where the gas was also light and burning low he went quickly to the other door that too was locked then he noticed that the camp bed which he occasionally used was prepared and his sleeping suit laid out upon it he put his hand up to his forehead and brought it away wet it dawned on him that he was barred out he went back to the door and rattling the handle stealthily called unlock the door do you hear unlock the door there was a faint rustling but no answer do you hear let me in at once I insist on being let in he could catch the sound of her breezing close to the door like the breezing of a creature threatened by danger there was something terrifying in this inexorable silence in the impossibility of getting at her he went back to the other door and putting his whole weight against it tried to burst it open the door was a new one he had had them renewed himself in readiness for their coming in after the honeymoon in a rage he lifted his foot to kick in the panel the thought of the servants restrained him and he felt suddenly that he was beaten flinging himself down in the dressing room he took up a book but instead of the print he seemed to see his wife with her yellow hair flowing over her bare shoulders and her great dark eyes standing like an animal at bay and the whole meaning of her act of revolt came to him she meant it to be for good he could not sit still and went to the door again he could still hear her and he called Irene, Irene he did not mean to make his voice pathetic in ominous answer the faint sound ceased he stood with clenched hands thinking presently he stored round on tiptoe and running suddenly at the other door made a supreme effort to break it open it creaked but did not yield he sat down on the stairs and buried his face in his hands for a long time he sat there in the dark the moon through the skylight seeing a pale smear which lengthened slowly towards him down the stairway he tried to be philosophical since she had locked her doors she had no further claim as a wife and he would console himself with other women it was but a spectral journey he made among such delights he had no appetite for these exploits he had never had much and he had lost the habit he felt that he could never recover it his hunger could only be appeased by his wife inexorable and frightened behind these shut doors no other woman could help him this conviction came to him with terrible force out there in the dark his philosophy left him his utterly anger took its place her conduct was immoral inexcusable worthy of any punishment within his power he desired no one but her and she refused him she must really hate him then he had never believed it yet he did not believe it now it seemed to him incredible he felt as though he had lost forever his power of judgment if she so soft and yielding as he had always judged her could take this decided step what could not happen then he asked himself again if she were carrying on an intrigue with Bosini he did not believe that she was he could not afford to believe such a reason for her conduct the thought was not to be faced it would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his marital relations public property short of the most convincing proofs he must still refuse to believe for he did not wish to punish himself and all the time at heart he did believe the moonlight cast a gray stinge over his figure hunched against the staircase wall Bosini was in love with her he hated the fellow and would not spare him now he could and would refuse to pay a penny piece over 12,050 pounds the extreme limit fixed in the correspondence or rather he would pay and sue him for damages he would go to jubbling and bolter and put the matter in their hands he would ruin the impecunious beggar and suddenly though what connection between the thoughts he reflected that Irene had no money either they were both beggars this gave him a strange satisfaction the silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall she was going to bed at last ah joy and pleasant dreams if she threw the door open wide he would not go in now but his lips that were twisted in a bitter smile twitched he covered his eyes with his hands it was late the following afternoon when some stood in the dining room window gazing gloomily into the square the sunlight still showered on the plain trees and in the breeze their gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ at the corner it was playing a waltz an old waltz that was out of fashion with a fateful rip in the notes and it went on and on though nothing indeed but leaves dance to the tune the woman did not look too gay for she was tired and from the tall houses no one threw her down coppers she moved the organ on and three doors off began again it was the waltz they had played at Rogers when Irene had danced with Bosnay and the perfume of the gardenia she had worn came back to Psalms drifted by the malicious music as it had been drifted to him then when she passed her hair glistening by so soft drawing Bosnay on and on down an endless ballroom the organ woman played her handle slowly she had been grinding her tune all day grinding it in Sloan street hard by grinding it perhaps to Bosnay himself Psalms turned took a cigarette from the carbon box and walked back the tune had mesmerized him and there came into his view Irene her sunshade furled hastening homewards down the square in a soft rose colored blouse with drooping sleeves that he did not know she stopped before the organ took out her purse and gave the woman money Psalms shrank back what she could see into the hall she came in with her lechki put down her sunshade and stood looking at herself in the glass her cheeks were flushed as if the sun had burned them her lips were parted in a smile she stretched her arms out as though to embrace herself with a laugh that for all the world was alive Psalms stepped forward very pretty he said but as though shot she spun round and would have passed him up the stairs he barred the way why such a hurry he said and his eyes fastened on a curl of hair fall loose across her ear he hardly recognized her she seemed on fire so deep and rich the color of her cheeks her eyes, her lips and of the unusual blouse she wore she put up her hand and smoothed back the curl she was breezing fast and deep as though she had been running and with every breath perfume seemed to come from her hair and from her body like perfume from an opening flower I don't like that blouse he said slowly it is a soft shapeless thing he lifted his finger towards her breast but she dashed his hand aside don't touch me she cried he caught her wrist she wrenched it away and where may you have been he asked in heaven out of this house those words she fled upstairs outside in thanksgiving at the very door the organ grinder was playing the waltz and some stood motionless what prevented him from following her was it that with eyes of face he saw Bosny looking down from that high window in Sloan Street straining his eyes for yet another glimpse of Irene's vanished figure cooling his flushed face dreaming of the moment when she flunk herself on his breast the scent of her still in the air around and the sound of her laugh that was like a sob end of part 2 chapter 14 some sits on the steps recording by Ava Hanik part 3 chapter 1 of the man of property 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 the man of property by John Galsworthy part 3 chapter 1 Mrs. McCander's evidence many people many people no doubt including the editor of the ultra-vivisectionist then in the bloom of its first youth would say that Sons was less than a man not to have removed the locks from his wife's doors and after beating her soundly resumed wedded happiness brutality is not so deplorably deluded by humanness as it used to be yet a sentimental segment of the population may still be relieved to learn that he did none of these things and brutality is not popular with foresight they are too circumspect and on the whole too soft hearted and in Sons there was some common pride not sufficient to make him do a really generous action but enough to prevent his indulging in an extremely mean one except perhaps in very hot blood above all this a true foresight refused to feel himself ridiculous short of actually beating his wife he perceived nothing to be done and therefore accepted the situation without another word throughout the summer and autumn he continued to go to the office to sort his pictures and ask his friends to dinner he did not leave town irony refused to go away the house at robin hill finished though it was remained empty and ownerless Sons had brought a suit against the buccaneer in which he claimed from him the sum of 350 pounds a firm of solicitors had put in a defense on besenny's behalf admitting the facts they raised a point on the correspondence which, divested of legal phraseology, amounted to this to speak of a free hand in the terms of this correspondence is an irish bull by a chance, fortuitous but not improbable in the close burrow of legal circles a good deal of information came to Sons' ear an enthous line of policy the working partner in his firm bestard, happening to sit next at dinner at walmasleys the taxing master to young chancry of the common law bar the necessity for talking what is known as shop which comes on all lawyers with the removal of the ladies caused chancry a young and promising advocate to propound an impersonal conundrum to his neighbor whose name he did not know for seated as he permanently was in the background bestard had practically no name he had said chancry a case coming on with a very nice point he then explained, preserving every professional discretion, the riddle in Sons' case everyone he said to whom he had spoken, thought at a nice point the issue was small unfortunately though damned serious for his client he believed walmasleys champagne was bad but plentiful a judge would make short work of it he was afraid he intended to make a big effort, the point was a nice one what did his neighbor say bestard, a model of secrecy said nothing he related the incident to Sons however with some malice for this quiet man was capable of human feeling ending with his own opinion that the point was a very nice one in accordance with his resolve our foresight had put his interest into the hands of jobling and bolter from the moment of doing so he regretted that he had not acted for himself on receiving a copy of besenny's defense he went over to their offices bolter who had the matter in hand jobling having died some years before told him that in his opinion it was rather a nice point he would like counsel's opinion on it somes told him to go to a good man and they went to waterbuck qc marking him ten and one who kept the papers six weeks and then wrote as follows in my opinion the true interpretation of this correspondence depends very much on the intention of the parties I will turn upon the evidence given at the trial I am of opinion that an attempt should be made to secure from the architect an admission that he understood he was not to spend at the outside more than twelve thousand and fifty pounds with regard to the expression a free hand in the terms of this correspondence to which my attention is directed the point is a nice one but I am of opinion that upon the whole the ruling in boy low versus the blasted cement company limited will apply upon this opinion they acted administering interrogatories but to their annoyance measures freak and able answered these in so masterly fashion that nothing whatever was admitted and that without prejudice it was on october one that somes read waterbuck's opinion in the dining room before dinner it made him nervous not so much because of the case of boy low versus the blasted cement company limited as at the point had lately begun to seem to him to a nice one there was about it just that pleasant flavor of subtlety so attractive to the best legal appetites to have his own impression confirmed by waterbuck qc would have disturbed any man he sat thinking it over and staring at the empty great for though autumn had come the weather kept as gloriously fine that jubilee year as if it were still high august it was not pleasant to be disturbed he desired too passionately to set his foot on businny's neck though he had not seen the architect since the last afternoon at robin hill he was never free from the sense of his presence never free from the memory of his worn face with its high cheekbones and enthusiastic eyes it would not be too much to say that he had never got rid of the feelings of that night when he heard the peacocks cry at dawn the feeling that businny haunted the house and every man's shape that he saw in the dark evenings walking past seemed that of him whom george had so appropriately named the buccaneer irony still met him he was certain where or how he neither knew nor asked deterred by a vague and secret dread of too much knowledge it all seems subterranean nowadays sometimes when he questioned his wife as to where she had been which he still made a point of doing as every foresight should she looked very strange her self-possession was wonderful she would find the mask of her face inscrutable as it had always been to him looked at an expression he had never been used to see there she had taken to lunching out too when he asked billson if her mistress had been into lunch as often as not she would answer no sir he strongly disapproved of her gating about by herself and told her so but she took no notice there was something that angered amazed yet almost amused him about the calm way in which she disregarded his wishes it was really as if she were hugging to herself the thought of a triumph over him he rose from the perusal of waterbuck qc's opinion and going upstairs entered her room for she did not lock her doors till bedtime she had the decency he found to save the feelings of the servants she was brushing her hair and turned to him with strange fierceness what do you want she said please leave my room he answered I want to know how long this state of things between us is to last I have put up with it long enough will you please leave my room will you treat me as your husband no then I shall take steps to make you do he stared amazed at the calmness of her answer her lips were compressed in a thin line her hair lay in fluffy masses on her bare shoulders and all its strange golden contrast to her dark eyes was alive with the emotions of fear hate contempt and odd haunting triumph now please we leave my room he turned around and went sulkily out he knew very well that he had no intention of taking steps and he saw that she knew too knew that he was afraid to it was a habit with him to tell her the doings of his day how such and such clients had called how he had arranged a mortgage for parks how that long standing suit the buyer versus foresight was getting on which arising in the preternaturally careful disposition of his property by his great uncle Nicholas who had tied it up so that no one could get at it at all seemed likely to remain a source of income for several solicitors to the jay of judgment and now he had called in at Jobsons and seen a bouchere sold which he had just missed buying of Taloran and Sons in Palmao he had an admiration for bouchere, wato and all that school it was a habit with him to tell her all these matters and he continues to do it even now talking for long spells at dinner as though by the volubility of words he could conceal from himself the ache in his heart often if they were alone he made an attempt to kiss her when she said good night he may have had some vague notion that some night she would let him or perhaps only the feeling that a husband ought to kiss his wife even if she hated him he had all events ought not to put himself in the wrong when neglecting this ancient rite and why did she hate him even now he could not all together believe it it was strange to be hated the emotion was too extreme yet he hated Bacini that Buccaneer that prowling vagabond that night wanderer for in his thoughts Sons always saw him lying in wait wandering but he must be in very low water young Burkett the architect had seen him coming out of a third rate restaurant looking terribly down in the mouth during all the hours he lay awake thinking over the situation which seemed to have no end unless she should suddenly come to her senses never once did the thought of separating from his wife seriously enter his head and the foresight what part did they play in this stage of Sons' subterranean tragedy truth to say little or none for they were at the sea from hotels hydropathics or lodging houses they were bathing daily laying in a stock of ozone to last them through the winter each section in the vineyard of its own choosing grew and culled and pressed and bottled the grapes of a pet sea air the end of September began to witness their several returns in rude health and small omnibuses was considerable color in their cheeks they arrived daily from the various termini the following morning saw them back at their vocations on the next Sunday Timothy's was throng from lunch till dinner amongst other gossip too numerous and interesting to relate Mrs. Septimus Small mentioned that Soms and Ireeny had not been away it remained for a comparative outsider to supply the next evidence of interest it chanced that one afternoon late in September Mrs. McCander Winterford-Darty's greatest friend taking a constitutional with young Augustus Flappard on her bicycle in Richmond Park passed Ireeny and Bessini walking from the Bracken towards the Sheen gate perhaps the poor little woman was thirsty for she had ridden long on a hard dry road and as all London knows to ride a bicycle and talk to young Flappard will try the toughest constitution or perhaps the sight of the cool Bracken Grove whence those two were coming down excited her envy the cool Bracken Grove on the top of the hill with the oak boughs for roof where the pigeons were raising an endless wedding hymn and the autumn humming whispered to the ears of lovers in the fern the deer stole by the Bracken Grove of irretrievable delights of golden minutes in the long marriage of heaven and earth the Bracken Grove sacred to stags to strange tree stump fawns leaping around the silver whiteness of a birch tree nymph at summer dusk this lady knew all the four sights and having been at June's at home was not at a loss to see with whom she had to deal her own marriage poor thing had not been successful but having had the good sense and ability of her husband into pronounced error she herself had passed through the necessary divorce proceedings without incurring censure she was therefore a judge of all that sort of thing and lived in one of those large buildings where in small sets of apartments are gathered incredible quantities of four sights whose chief recreation out of business hours is the discussion of each other's affairs poor little woman perhaps she was thirsty certainly she was bored for Flappard was a wit he those two in so unlikely a spot was quite a merciful pick me up at the McCander like all London time pauses this small but remarkable woman merits attention her all-seeing eye and shrewd tongue were inscrutably the means of furthering the ends of Providence with an air of being in at the death she had an almost distressing power of taking care of herself she had done more perhaps in her way than any woman about town to destroy her sense of chivalry which still clogs a wheel of civilization so smart she was and spoken endearingly as the little McCander dressing tightly and well she belonged to a women's club but was by no means an erotic and dismal type of member who was always thinking of her rights she took her rights unconsciously they came natural to her and she knew exactly how to make the most of them without exciting anything but admiration amongst that great class to whom she was affiliated precisely perhaps by manner but by birth, breeding and the true the secret gauge a sense of property the daughter of a Bedfordshire solicitor by the daughter of a clergyman she had never through all the painful experience of being married to a very mild painter with a cranky love of nature who had deserted her for an actress lost touch with the requirements beliefs and inner feeling of society and on attaining her liberty she placed herself without effort in the very van of foresightism always in good spirits and full of information she was universally welcomed she excited neither surprise nor disapprobation when encountered on the Rhine or at Zermatt either alone or traveling with a lady and two gentlemen it was felt that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself and the hearts of all foresight warm to that wonderful instinct which enabled her to enjoy everything without giving anything away it was generally felt that to such women as mrs. McCander should we look for the perpetuation and increase of our best type of woman she had never had any children if there was one thing more than another that she could not stand it was one of those soft women with what men called charm about them and for mrs. Soames she always had a special dislike obscurely no doubt she felt that if charm were once admitted as the criterion smartness and capability must go to the wall and she hated the hatred the deeper that at times this so-called charm seemed to disturb all calculations the subtle seductiveness which she could not altogether overlook and irony she said however that she could see nothing in the woman there was no go about her she would never be able to stand up for herself anyone could take advantage of her that was plain she could not see in fact what men found to admire she was not really ill-natured but in maintaining her position after the trying circumstances of her married life she had found it so necessary to be full of information that the idea of holding her tongue about those two in the park never occurred to her and it so happened that she was dining that very evening at timothy's where she went sometimes to cheer the old things up as she was wont to put it the same people were always asked to meet her winterford darty and her husband francy because she belonged to the artistic circles macander was known to contribute articles on dress to the ladies kingdom come and for her to flirt with provided they could be obtained two of the heyman boys who though they never said anything were believed to be fast and thoroughly intimate with all that was latest in smart society at twenty five minutes past seven she turned out the electric light her little hall and wrapped in her opera cloak with the chinchilla collar came out into the quarter pausing a moment to make sure she had her latch key these little self-contained flats were convenient to be sure she had no light and air but she could shut it up whenever she liked and go away there was no bother with servants and she never felt tied as she was used to when poor dear fred was always about in his moony way she retained no rancor against poor dear fred he was such a fool but the thought of that actress drew from her even now a little bitter derisive smile firmly snapping the door to she crossed the corridor with its gloomy yellow ochre walls and its infinite vista of brown numbered doors the lift was going down and wrapped to the ears in the high cloak with every one of her auburn hairs in its place she waited motionless for it to stop at her floor the iron gates clanked open she entered there were already three occupants a man in a great white waistcoat with a large smooth face like a baby's and two old ladies in black with mitten hands mrs. mccander smiled at them she knew everybody and all these three who had been admirably silent before began to talk at once this was mrs. mccander's successful secret she provoked conversation throughout a descent of five stories the conversation continued the lift boy standing with his back turned his cynical face protruding through the bars at the bottom they separated the man in the white waistcoat sentimentally to the billiard room the old ladies to dine and say to each other a dear little woman such a rattle and mrs. mccander to her cab when mrs. mccander dined at timothy's the conversation although timothy himself could never be induced to be present took that wider man of the world tone current among four sites at large and this no doubt was what put her at a premium there mrs. small and ant hester found that an exhilarating change if only they said timothy would meet her it was felt that she would do him good she could tell you for instance the latest story of sir charles fist's son at montecarlo who was the real hero one of timothy's fashionable novel that everyone was holding up their hands over and what they were doing in paris about wearing bloomers she was so sensible too knowing all about that vexed question whether to send young nicolas eldest into the navy as his mother wished or make him an accountant as his father thought would be safer she strongly deprecated the navy they were not exceptionally brilliant or exceptionally well connected they passed you over so disgracefully and what was it after all to look forward to even if you became an admiral a pittance an accountant had many more chances but let them be put with a good firm where there was no risk at starting sometimes she would give them a tip on the stock exchange not that mrs. small or ant hester ever took it they had indeed no money to invest but it seemed to bring them into such exciting touch with the realities of life it was an event they would ask timothy they said but they never did knowing in advance that it would upset him surreptitiously however for weeks after they would look in that paper which they took with respect on account of its really fashionable proclivities to see whether brights rubies or the woollen macintosh company or up or down sometimes they could not find the name of the company at all and they would wait until james or roger was trembling with curiosity how that bolivia lime and speltrate was doing they could not find it in the paper and roger would answer what do you want to know for some trash you'll go burning your fingers investing your money in lime and things you know nothing about who told you and ascertaining what they had been told he would go away and making inquiries in the city would perhaps invest some of his own money in the concern it was about the middle of dinner just in fact as a saddle of mutton brought in by smither that mrs. mccander looking eerily around said oh and whom do you think I passed today in richmond park you'll never guess mrs. somes and mr. basini they must have been down to look at the house winterford darty coughed and no one said a word it was the piece of evidence they had all unconsciously been waiting for to do mrs. mccander justice she had been to switzerland and the italian lakes with a party of three and had not heard of somes' rupture with his architect she could not tell therefore the profound impression her words would make upright and a little flushed she moved her small shrewd eyes from face to face trying to gauge the effect of her words on either side of her a hayman boy his lean taciturn hungry face turned towards his plate ate his mutton steadily these two giles and jessey were so alike and so inseparable that they were known as the dromios they never talked they seemed always completely occupied in doing nothing it was popularly supposed that they were cramming for an important examination they walked without hats for long hours in the gardens attached to their houses books in their hands a fox terrier at their heels never saying a word and smoking all the time every morning about 50 yards apart they trotted down campton hill on two lean hacks with legs as long as their own and every morning about an hour later still 50 yards apart they cantered up again every evening wherever they had dined they might be observed about half past 10 leaning over the valley straight of the alhambra promenade they were never seen otherwise than together in this way passing their lives apparently perfectly content inspired by some dumb stirring within them of the feelings of gentlemen they turned at this painful moment to mrs. mccander and said in precisely the same voice have you seen the such was her surprise being thus addressed that she put down her fork and smither who was passing promptly removed her plate mrs. mccander however with presence of mind said instantly I must have a little more of that nice mutton but afterwards in the drawing room she sat down by mrs. small determined to get to the bottom of the matter and she began what a charming woman mrs. soames such a sympathetic temperament soames is a really lucky man her anxiety for information sufficient allowance for that inner foresight skin which refuses to share its troubles with outsiders mrs. Septimus small drawing herself up with a creak and rustle of her whole person said shivering in her dignity my dear it is a subject we do not talk about end of part 3 chapter 1 recording by lianne howlett