“Contracts are not always just,” fumed out June, “and when they’re not, they ought to be broken.  The Boers are much the weaker.  We could afford to be generous.”

Soames sniffed.  “That’s mere sentiment,” he said.

Aunt Hester, to whom nothing was more awful than any kind of disagreement, here leaned forward and remarked decisively: 

“What lovely weather it has been for the time of year?”

But June was not to be diverted.

“I don’t know why sentiment should be sneered at.  It’s the best thing in the world.”  She looked defiantly round, and Aunt Juley had to intervene again: 

“Have you bought any pictures lately, Soames?”

Her incomparable instinct for the wrong subject had not failed her.  Soames flushed.  To disclose the name of his latest purchases would be like walking into the jaws of disdain.  For somehow they all knew of June’s predilection for ‘genius’ not yet on its legs, and her contempt for ‘success’ unless she had had a finger in securing it.

“One or two,” he muttered.

But June’s face had changed; the Forsyte within her was seeing its chance.  Why should not Soames buy some of the pictures of Eric Cobbley—­her last lame duck?  And she promptly opened her attack:  Did Soames know his work?  It was so wonderful.  He was the coming man.

Oh, yes, Soames knew his work.  It was in his view ‘splashy,’ and would never get hold of the public.

June blazed up.

“Of course it won’t; that’s the last thing one would wish for.  I thought you were a connoisseur, not a picture-dealer.”

“Of course Soames is a connoisseur,” Aunt Juley said hastily; “he has wonderful taste—­he can always tell beforehand what’s going to be successful.”

“Oh!” gasped June, and sprang up from the bead-covered chair, “I hate that standard of success.  Why can’t people buy things because they like them?”

“You mean,” said Francie, “because you like them.”

And in the slight pause young Nicholas was heard saying gently that Violet (his fourth) was taking lessons in pastel, he didn’t know if they were any use.

“Well, good-bye, Auntie,” said June; “I must get on,” and kissing her aunts, she looked defiantly round the room, said “Good-bye” again, and went.  A breeze seemed to pass out with her, as if everyone had sighed.

The third sensation came before anyone had time to speak: 

“Mr. James Forsyte.”

James came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat which gave him a fictitious bulk.

Everyone stood up.  James was so old; and he had not been at Timothy’s for nearly two years.

“It’s hot in here,” he said.

Soames divested him of his coat, and as he did so could not help admiring the glossy way his father was turned out.  James sat down, all knees, elbows, frock-coat, and long white whiskers.