whole means of subsistence; for James was now too old and nervous to approach, and Soames too formidably adamant.  It is not too much to say that Dartie had been living on hope for months.  He had never been fond of money for itself, had always despised the Forsytes with their investing habits, though careful to make such use of them as he could.  What he liked about money was what it bought—­personal sensation.

“No real sportsman cares for money,” he would say, borrowing a ‘pony’ if it was no use trying for a ‘monkey.’  There was something delicious about Montague Dartie.  He was, as George Forsyte said, a ‘daisy.’

The morning of the Handicap dawned clear and bright, the last day of September, and Dartie who had travelled to Newmarket the night before, arrayed himself in spotless checks and walked to an eminence to see his half of the filly take her final canter:  If she won he would be a cool three thou. in pocket—­a poor enough recompense for the sobriety and patience of these weeks of hope, while they had been nursing her for this race.  But he had not been able to afford more.  Should he ‘lay it off’ at the eight to one to which she had advanced?  This was his single thought while the larks sang above him, and the grassy downs smelled sweet, and the pretty filly passed, tossing her head and glowing like satin.

After all, if he lost it would not be he who paid, and to ‘lay it off’ would reduce his winnings to some fifteen hundred—­hardly enough to purchase a dancer out and out.  Even more potent was the itch in the blood of all the Darties for a real flutter.  And turning to George he said:  “She’s a clipper.  She’ll win hands down; I shall go the whole hog.”  George, who had laid off every penny, and a few besides, and stood to win, however it came out, grinned down on him from his bulky height, with the words:  “So ho, my wild one!” for after a chequered apprenticeship weathered with the money of a deeply complaining Roger, his Forsyte blood was beginning to stand him in good stead in the profession of owner.

There are moments of disillusionment in the lives of men from which the sensitive recorder shrinks.  Suffice it to say that the good thing fell down.  Sleeve-links finished in the ruck.  Dartie’s shirt was lost.

Between the passing of these things and the day when Soames turned his face towards Green Street, what had not happened!

When a man with the constitution of Montague Dartie has exercised self-control for months from religious motives, and remains unrewarded, he does not curse God and die, he curses God and lives, to the distress of his family.