“This young Mont that I’m speaking of is very sweet on Fleur.  If it would put an end to that other affair I might encourage it.”

“Has he got style?” asked Winifred.

“He’s no beauty; pleasant enough, with some scattered brains.  There’s a good deal of land, I believe.  He seems genuinely attached.  But I don’t know.”

“No,” murmured Winifred; “it’s—­very difficult.  I always found it best to do nothing.  It is such a bore about Jack; now we shan’t get away till after Bank Holiday.  Well, the people are always amusing, I shall go into the Park and watch them.”

“If I were you,” said Soames, “I should have a country cottage, and be out of the way of holidays and strikes when you want.”

“The country bores me,” answered Winifred, “and I found the railway strike quite exciting.”

Winifred had always been noted for sang-froid.

Soames took his leave.  All the way down to Reading he debated whether he should tell Fleur of that boy’s father’s death.  It did not alter the situation except that he would be independent now, and only have his mother’s opposition to encounter.  He would come into a lot of money, no doubt, and perhaps the house—­the house built for Irene and himself—­the house whose architect had wrought his domestic ruin.  His daughter—­mistress of that house!  That would be poetic justice!  Soames uttered a little mirthless laugh.  He had designed that house to re-establish his failing union, meant it for the seat of his descendants, if he could have induced Irene to give him one!  Her son and Fleur!  Their children would be, in some sort, offspring of the union between himself and her!

The theatricality in that thought was repulsive to his sober sense.  And yet—­it would be the easiest and wealthiest way out of the impasse, now that Jolyon was gone.  The juncture of two Forsyte fortunes had a kind of conservative charm.  And she—­Irene-would be linked to him once more.  Nonsense!  Absurd!  He put the notion from his head.

On arriving home he heard the click of billiard-balls, and through the window saw young Mont sprawling over the table.  Fleur, with her cue akimbo, was watching with a smile.  How pretty she looked!  No wonder that young fellow was out of his mind about her.  A title—­land!  There was little enough in land, these days; perhaps less in a title.  The old Forsytes had always had a kind of contempt for titles, rather remote and artificial things—­not worth the money they cost, and having to do with the Court.  They had all had that feeling in differing measure—­Soames remembered.  Swithin, indeed, in his most expansive days had once attended a Levee.  He had come away saying he shouldn’t go again—­“all that small fry.”  It was suspected that he had looked too big in knee-breeches.  Soames remembered how his own mother had wished to be presented because of the fashionable nature of the performance, and how his father had put his foot down with unwonted decision.  What did she want with that peacocking—­wasting time and money; there was nothing in it!