To Let

Chapter VI.

SOAMES’ PRIVATE LIFE

On his way to Green Street it occurred to Soames that he ought to go into Dumetrius’ in Suffolk Street about the possibility of the Bolderby Old Crome. Almost worth while to have fought the War to have the Bolderby Old Crome, as it were, in flux! Old Bolderby had died, his son and grandson had been killed—a cousin was coming into the estate, who meant to sell it, some said because of the condition of England, others said because he had asthma.

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 begi

“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 post-mark. 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.”

The sensation with which Soames dropped the letter was similar to that he would have had entering his bedroom and finding it full of black-beetles. The mea

“Mr. Michael Mont, sir, is in the drawing-room. Will you see him?”

“No,” said Soames; “yes. I’ll come down.”

Anything that would take his mind off for a few minutes!

Michael Mont in fla

Soames’ feeling towards this young man was singular. He was no doubt a rackety, irresponsible young fellow according to old standards, yet somehow likeable, with his extraordinarily cheerful way of blurting out his opinions.

“Come in,” he said; “have you had tea?”

Mont came in.

“I thought Fleur would have been back, sir; but I’m glad she isn’t. The fact is, I—I’m fearfully gone on her; so fearfully gone that I thought you’d better know. It’s old-fashioned, of course, coming to fathers first, but I thought you’d forgive that. I went to my own dad, and he says if I settle down he’ll see me through. He rather cottons to the idea, in fact. I told him about your Goya.”

“Oh!” said Soames, inexpressibly dry. “He rather cottons?”

“Yes, sir; do you?”

Soames smiled faintly. “You see,” resumed Mont, twiddling his straw hat, while his hair, ears, eyebrows, all seemed to stand up from excitement, “when you’ve been through the War you can’t help being in a hurry.”

“To get married; and unmarried afterwards,” said Soames slowly.

“Not from Fleur, sir. Imagine, if you were me!”

Soames cleared his throat. That way of putting it was forcible enough.

“Fleur’s too young,” he said.

“Oh! no, sir. We’re awfully old nowadays. My dad seems to me a perfect babe; his thinking apparatus hasn’t turned a hair. But he’s a Baronight, of course; that keeps him back.”

“Baronight,” repeated Soames; “what may that be?”

“Bart, sir. I shall be a Bart some day. But I shall live it down, you know.”

“Go away and live this down,” said Soames.

Young Mont said imploringly: “Oh! no, sir. I simply must hang round, or I shouldn’t have a dog’s chance. You’ll let Fleur do what she likes, I suppose, anyway. Madame passes me.”

“Indeed!” said Soames frigidly.

“You don’t really bar me, do you?” and the young man looked so doleful that Soames smiled.

“You may think you’re very old,” he said; “but you strike me as extremely young. To rattle ahead of everything is not a proof of maturity.”

“All right, sir; I give you our age. But to show you I mean business—I’ve got a job.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Joined a publisher; my governor is putting up the stakes.”

Soames put his hand over his mouth—he had so very nearly said: “God help the publisher.” His grey eyes scrutinised the agitated young man.