The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) đ
- Author: John Galsworthy
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Bosinneyâs office was in Sloane Street, close at hand, so that he would be able to keep his eye continually on the plans.
Again, Irene would not be to likely to object to leave London if her greatest friendâs lover were given the job. Juneâs marriage might depend on it. Irene could not decently stand in the way of Juneâs marriage; she would never do that, he knew her too well. And June would be pleased; of this he saw the advantage.
Bosinney looked clever, but he had alsoâ âandâ âit was one of his great attractionsâ âan air as if he did not quite know on which side his bread were buttered; he should be easy to deal with in money matters. Soames made this reflection in no defrauding spirit; it was the natural attitude of his mindâ âof the mind of any good business manâ âof all those thousands of good business men through whom he was threading his way up Ludgate Hill.
Thus he fulfilled the inscrutable laws of his great classâ âof human nature itselfâ âwhen he reflected, with a sense of comfort, that Bosinney would be easy to deal with in money matters.
While he elbowed his way on, his eyes, which he usually kept fixed on the ground before his feet, were attracted upwards by the dome of St. Paulâs. It had a peculiar fascination for him, that old dome, and not once, but twice or three times a week, would he halt in his daily pilgrimage to enter beneath and stop in the side aisles for five or ten minutes, scrutinizing the names and epitaphs on the monuments. The attraction for him of this great church was inexplicable, unless it enabled him to concentrate his thoughts on the business of the day. If any affair of particular moment, or demanding peculiar acuteness, was weighing on his mind, he invariably went in, to wander with mouse-like attention from epitaph to epitaph. Then retiring in the same noiseless way, he would hold steadily on up Cheapside, a thought more of dogged purpose in his gait, as though he had seen something which he had made up his mind to buy.
He went in this morning, but, instead of stealing from monument to monument, turned his eyes upwards to the columns and spacings of the walls, and remained motionless.
His uplifted face, with the awed and wistful look which faces take on themselves in church, was whitened to a chalky hue in the vast building. His gloved hands were clasped in front over the handle of his umbrella. He lifted them. Some sacred inspiration perhaps had come to him.
âYes,â he thought, âI must have room to hang my pictures.â
That evening, on his return from the City, he called at Bosinneyâs office. He found the architect in his shirtsleeves, smoking a pipe, and ruling off lines on a plan. Soames refused a drink, and came at once to the point.
âIf youâve nothing better to do on Sunday, come down with me to Robin Hill, and give me your opinion on a building site.â
âAre you going to build?â
âPerhaps,â said Soames; âbut donât speak of it. I just want your opinion.â
âQuite so,â said the architect.
Soames peered about the room.
âYouâre rather high up here,â he remarked.
Any information he could gather about the nature and scope of Bosinneyâs business would be all to the good.
âIt does well enough for me so far,â answered the architect. âYouâre accustomed to the swells.â
He knocked out his pipe, but replaced it empty between his teeth; it assisted him perhaps to carry on the conversation. Soames noted a hollow in each cheek, made as it were by suction.
âWhat do you pay for an office like this?â said he.
âFifty too much,â replied Bosinney.
This answer impressed Soames favourably.
âI suppose it is dear,â he said. âIâll call for youâ âon Sunday about eleven.â
The following Sunday therefore he called for Bosinney in a hansom, and drove him to the station. On arriving at Robin Hill, they found no cab, and started to walk the mile and a half to the site.
It was the 1st of Augustâ âa perfect day, with a burning sun and cloudless skyâ âand in the straight, narrow road leading up the hill their feet kicked up a yellow dust.
âGravel soil,â remarked Soames, and sideways he glanced at the coat Bosinney wore. Into the side-pockets of this coat were thrust bundles of papers, and under one arm was carried a queer-looking stick. Soames noted these and other peculiarities.
No one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have taken such liberties with his appearance; and though these eccentricities were revolting to Soames, he derived a certain satisfaction from them, as evidence of qualities by which he must inevitably profit. If the fellow could build houses, what did his clothes matter?
âI told you,â he said, âthat I want this house to be a surprise, so donât say anything about it. I never talk of my affairs until theyâre carried through.â
Bosinney nodded.
âLet women into your plans,â pursued Soames, âand you never know where itâll end.â
âAh!âsaid Bosinney, âwomen are the devil!â
This feeling had long been at the bottom of Soamesâ heart; he had never, however, put it into words.
âOh!â he muttered, âso youâre beginning to.â ââ âŠâ He stopped, but added, with an uncontrollable burst of spite: âJuneâs got a temper of her ownâ âalways had.â
âA temperâs not a bad thing in an angel.â
Soames had never called Irene an angel. He could not so have violated his best instincts, letting other people into the secret of her value, and giving himself away. He made no reply.
They had struck into a half-made road across a warren. A cart-track led at right-angles to a gravel pit, beyond which the chimneys of a cottage rose amongst a clump of trees at the border of a thick wood. Tussocks of feathery grass covered the rough surface of the ground, and out of these the larks soared into the haze of sunshine. On the far horizon, over a countless succession of fields and hedges,
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