“Oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, Mother; and I think I ought to stand the tickets; he’s always hard up, you know.”

Winifred produced a five-pound note, saying: 

“Well, perhaps you’d better pay him, but you mustn’t stand the tickets too.”

Val pocketed the fiver.

“If I do, I can’t,” he said.  “Good-night, Mum!”

He went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously, sniffing the air of Piccadilly like a young hound loosed into covert.  Jolly good biz!  After that mouldy old slow hole down there!

He found his ‘tutor,’ not indeed at the Oxford and Cambridge, but at the Goat’s Club.  This ‘tutor’ was a year older than himself, a good-looking youth, with fine brown eyes, and smooth dark hair, a small mouth, an oval face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, one of those young men who without effort establish moral ascendancy over their companions.  He had missed being expelled from school a year before Val, had spent that year at Oxford, and Val could almost see a halo round his head.  His name was Crum, and no one could get through money quicker.  It seemed to be his only aim in life—­dazzling to young Val, in whom, however, the Forsyte would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the value for that money was.

They dined quietly, in style and taste; left the Club smoking cigars, with just two bottles inside them, and dropped into stalls at the Liberty.  For Val the sound of comic songs, the sight of lovely legs were fogged and interrupted by haunting fears that he would never equal Crum’s quiet dandyism.  His idealism was roused; and when that is so, one is never quite at ease.  Surely he had too wide a mouth, not the best cut of waistcoat, no braid on his trousers, and his lavender gloves had no thin black stitchings down the back.  Besides, he laughed too much—­Crum never laughed, he only smiled, with his regular dark brows raised a little so that they formed a gable over his just drooped lids.  No! he would never be Crum’s equal.  All the same it was a jolly good show, and Cynthia Dark simply ripping.  Between the acts Crum regaled him with particulars of Cynthia’s private life, and the awful knowledge became Val’s that, if he liked, Crum could go behind.  He simply longed to say:  “I say, take me!” but dared not, because of his deficiencies; and this made the last act or two almost miserable.  On coming out Crum said:  “It’s half an hour before they close; let’s go on to the Pandemonium.”  They took a hansom to travel the hundred yards, and seats costing seven-and-six apiece because they were going to stand, and walked into the Promenade.  It was in these little things, this utter negligence of money that Crum had such engaging polish.  The ballet was on its last legs and night, and the traffic of the Promenade was suffering for the moment.  Men and women were crowded in three rows against the barrier.  The whirl and dazzle on the stage,