Soames, coming up to the City, with the intention of calling in at Green Street at the end of his day and taking Fleur back home with him, suffered from rumination.  Sleeping partner that he was, he seldom visited the City now, but he still had a room of his own at Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte’s, and one special clerk and a half assigned to the management of purely Forsyte affairs.  They were somewhat in flux just now—­an auspicious moment for the disposal of house property.  And Soames was unloading the estates of his father and Uncle Roger, and to some extent of his Uncle Nicholas.  His shrewd and matter-of-course probity in all money concerns had made him something of an autocrat in connection with these trusts.  If Soames thought this or thought that, one had better save oneself the bother of thinking too.  He guaranteed, as it were, irresponsibility to numerous Forsytes of the third and fourth generations.  His fellow trustees, such as his cousins Roger or Nicholas, his cousins-in-law Tweetyman and Spender, or his sister Cicely’s husband, all trusted him; he signed first, and where he signed first they signed after, and nobody was a penny the worse.  Just now they were all a good many pennies the better, and Soames was beginning to see the close of certain trusts, except for distribution of the income from securities as gilt-edged as was compatible with the period.

Passing the more feverish parts of the City toward the most perfect backwater in London, he ruminated.  Money was extraordinarily tight; and morality extraordinarily loose!  The War had done it.  Banks were not lending; people breaking contracts all over the place.  There was a feeling in the air and a look on faces that he did not like.  The country seemed in for a spell of gambling and bankruptcies.  There was satisfaction in the thought that neither he nor his trusts had an investment which could be affected by anything less maniacal than national repudiation or a levy on capital.  If Soames had faith, it was in what he called “English common sense”—­or the power to have things, if not one way then another.  He might—­like his father James before him—­say he didn’t know what things were coming to, but he never in his heart believed they were.  If it rested with him, they wouldn’t—­and, after all, he was only an Englishman like any other, so quietly tenacious of what he had that he knew he would never really part with it without something more or less equivalent in exchange.  His mind was essentially equilibristic in material matters, and his way of putting the national situation difficult to refute in a world composed of human beings.  Take his own case, for example!  He was well off.  Did that do anybody harm?  He did not eat ten meals a day; he ate no more than, perhaps not so much as, a poor man.  He spent no money on vice; breathed no more air, used no more water to speak of than the mechanic or the porter.  He certainly had pretty things about him, but they had