If Dumetrius once got hold of it the price would become prohibitive; it was necessary for Soames to find out whether Dumetrius had got it, before he tried to get it himself.  He therefore confined himself to discussing with Dumetrius whether Monticellis would come again now that it was the fashion for a picture to be anything except a picture; and the future of Johns, with a side-slip into Buxton Knights.  It was only when leaving that he added:  “So they’re not selling the Bolderby Old Crome, after all?” In sheer pride of racial superiority, as he had calculated would be the case, Dumetrius replied: 

“Oh!  I shall get it, Mr. Forsyte, sir!”

The flutter of his eyelid fortified Soames in a resolution to write direct to the new Bolderby, suggesting that the only dignified way of dealing with an Old Crome was to avoid dealers.  He therefore said, “Well, good-day!” and went, leaving Dumetrius the wiser.

At Green Street he found that Fleur was out and would be all the evening; she was staying one more night in London.  He cabbed on dejectedly, and caught his train.

He reached his house about six o’clock.  The air was heavy, midges biting, thunder about.  Taking his letters he went up to his dressing-room to cleanse himself of London.

An uninteresting post.  A receipt, a bill for purchases on behalf of Fleur.  A circular about an exhibition of etchings.  A letter beginning: 

“Sir, “I feel it my duty...”

That would be an appeal or something unpleasant.  He looked at once for the signature.  There was none!  Incredulously he turned the page over and examined each corner.  Not being a public man, Soames had never yet had an anonymous letter, and his first impulse was to tear it up, as a dangerous thing; his second to read it, as a thing still more dangerous.

“Sir, “I feel it my duty to inform you that having no interest in the matter your lady is carrying on with a foreigner—­”

Reaching that word Soames stopped mechanically and examined the postmark.  So far as he could pierce the impenetrable disguise in which the Post Office had wrapped it, there was something with a “sea” at the end and a “t” in it.  Chelsea?  No!  Battersea?  Perhaps!  He read on.

“These foreigners are all the same.  Sack the lot.  This one meets your lady twice a week.  I know it of my own knowledge—­and to see an Englishman put on goes against the grain.  You watch it and see if what I say isn’t true.  I shouldn’t meddle if it wasn’t a dirty foreigner that’s in it.  Yours obedient.”