FINE FLEUR FORSYTE

Emerging from the “pastry-cook’s,” Soames’ first impulse was to vent his nerves by saying to his daughter:  ‘Dropping your hand-kerchief!’ to which her reply might well be:  ‘I picked that up from you!’ His second impulse therefore was to let sleeping dogs lie.  But she would surely question him.  He gave her a sidelong look, and found she was giving him the same.  She said softly: 

“Why don’t you like those cousins, Father?” Soames lifted the corner of his lip.

“What made you think that?”

“Cela se voit.”

‘That sees itself!’ What a way of putting it!  After twenty years of a French wife Soames had still little sympathy with her language; a theatrical affair and connected in his mind with all the refinements of domestic irony.

“How?” he asked.

“You must know them; and you didn’t make a sign.  I saw them looking at you.”

“I’ve never seen the boy in my life,” replied Soames with perfect truth.

“No; but you’ve seen the others, dear.”

Soames gave her another look.  What had she picked up?  Had her Aunt Winifred, or Imogen, or Val Dartie and his wife, been talking?  Every breath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, and Winifred warned many times that he wouldn’t have a whisper of it reach her for the world.  So far as she ought to know, he had never been married before.  But her dark eyes, whose southern glint and clearness often almost frightened him, met his with perfect innocence.

“Well,” he said, “your grandfather and his brother had a quarrel.  The two families don’t know each other.”

“How romantic!”

‘Now, what does she mean by that?’ he thought.  The word was to him extravagant and dangerous—­it was as if she had said:  “How jolly!”

“And they’ll continue not to know each, other,” he added, but instantly regretted the challenge in those words.  Fleur was smiling.  In this age, when young people prided themselves on going their own ways and paying no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had said the very thing to excite her wilfulness.  Then, recollecting the expression on Irene’s face, he breathed again.

“What sort of a quarrel?” he heard Fleur say.

“About a house.  It’s ancient history for you.  Your grandfather died the day you were born.  He was ninety.”

“Ninety?  Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?”

“I don’t know,” said Soames.  “They’re all dispersed now.  The old ones are dead, except Timothy.”

Fleur clasped her hands.

“Timothy?  Isn’t that delicious?”

“Not at all,” said Soames.  It offended him that she should think “Timothy” delicious—­a kind of insult to his breed.  This new generation mocked at anything solid and tenacious.  “You go and see the old boy.  He might want to prophesy.”  Ah!  If Timothy could see the disquiet England of his great-nephews and great-nieces, he would certainly give tongue.  And involuntarily he glanced up at the Iseeum; yes—­George was still in the window, with the same pink paper in his hand.