Fortunately for the peace of his mind, cruelly tortured by the coming scandal, he was kept busy day and night with plans for his retirement—­for he had come to that grim conclusion.  To go on seeing all those people who had known him as a ‘long-headed chap,’ an astute adviser—­after that—­no!  The fastidiousness and pride which was so strangely, so inextricably blended in him with possessive obtuseness, revolted against the thought.  He would retire, live privately, go on buying pictures, make a great name as a collector—­after all, his heart was more in that than it had ever been in Law.  In pursuance of this now fixed resolve, he had to get ready to amalgamate his business with another firm without letting people know, for that would excite curiosity and make humiliation cast its shadow before.  He had pitched on the firm of Cuthcott, Holliday and Kingson, two of whom were dead.  The full name after the amalgamation would therefore be Cuthcott, Holliday, Kingson, Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte.  But after debate as to which of the dead still had any influence with the living, it was decided to reduce the title to Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte, of whom Kingson would be the active and Soames the sleeping partner.  For leaving his name, prestige, and clients behind him, Soames would receive considerable value.

One night, as befitted a man who had arrived at so important a stage of his career, he made a calculation of what he was worth, and after writing off liberally for depreciation by the war, found his value to be some hundred and thirty thousand pounds.  At his father’s death, which could not, alas, be delayed much longer, he must come into at least another fifty thousand, and his yearly expenditure at present just reached two.  Standing among his pictures, he saw before him a future full of bargains earned by the trained faculty of knowing better than other people.  Selling what was about to decline, keeping what was still going up, and exercising judicious insight into future taste, he would make a unique collection, which at his death would pass to the nation under the title ‘Forsyte Bequest.’

If the divorce went through, he had determined on his line with Madame Lamotte.  She had, he knew, but one real ambition—­to live on her ‘renter’ in Paris near her grandchildren.  He would buy the goodwill of the Restaurant Bretagne at a fancy price.  Madame would live like a Queen-Mother in Paris on the interest, invested as she would know how.  (Incidentally Soames meant to put a capable manager in her place, and make the restaurant pay good interest on his money.  There were great possibilities in Soho.) On Annette he would promise to settle fifteen thousand pounds (whether designedly or not), precisely the sum old Jolyon had settled on ‘that woman.’