The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) 📖

on a basis of payment before delivery, no emporium can be more highly recommended to Forsytes⁠—to match a piece of prunella silk for her mother, who was waiting in the carriage outside.

Passing through the Groceries her eye was unpleasantly attracted by the back view of a very beautiful figure. It was so charmingly proportioned, so balanced, and so well clothed, that Euphemia’s instinctive propriety was at once alarmed; such figures, she knew, by intuition rather than experience, were rarely connected with virtue⁠—certainly never in her mind, for her own back was somewhat difficult to fit.

Her suspicions were fortunately confirmed. A young man coming from the Drugs had snatched off his hat, and was accosting the lady with the unknown back.

It was then that she saw with whom she had to deal; the lady was undoubtedly Mrs. Soames, the young man Mr. Bosinney. Concealing herself rapidly over the purchase of a box of Tunisian dates, for she was impatient of awkwardly meeting people with parcels in her hands, and at the busy time of the morning, she was quite unintentionally an interested observer of their little interview.

Mrs. Soames, usually somewhat pale, had a delightful colour in her cheeks; and Mr. Bosinney’s manner was strange, though attractive (she thought him rather a distinguished-looking man, and George’s name for him, “The Buccaneer”⁠—about which there was something romantic⁠—quite charming). He seemed to be pleading. Indeed, they talked so earnestly⁠—or, rather, he talked so earnestly, for Mrs. Soames did not say much⁠—that they caused, inconsiderately, an eddy in the traffic. One nice old General, going towards Cigars, was obliged to step quite out of the way, and chancing to look up and see Mrs. Soames’ face, he actually took off his hat, the old fool! So like a man!

But it was Mrs. Soames’ eyes that worried Euphemia. She never once looked at Mr. Bosinney until he moved on, and then she looked after him. And, oh, that look!

On that look Euphemia had spent much anxious thought. It is not too much to say that it had hurt her with its dark, lingering softness, for all the world as though the woman wanted to drag him back, and unsay something she had been saying.

Ah, well, she had had no time to go deeply into the matter just then, with that prunella silk on her hands; but she was “very intriguée⁠—very!” She had just nodded to Mrs. Soames, to show her that she had seen; and, as she confided, in talking it over afterwards, to her chum Francie (Roger’s daughter), “Didn’t she look caught out just?⁠ ⁠…”

James, most averse at the first blush to accepting any news confirmatory of his own poignant suspicions, took her up at once.

“Oh,” he said, “they’d be after wallpapers no doubt.”

Euphemia smiled. “In the Groceries?” she said softly; and, taking Passion and Paregoric from the table, added: “And so you’ll lend me this, dear Auntie? Goodbye!” and went away.

James left almost immediately after; he was late as it was.

When he reached the office of Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte, he found Soames, sitting in his revolving, chair, drawing up a defence. The latter greeted his father with a curt good morning, and, taking an envelope from his pocket, said:

“It may interest you to look through this.”

James read as follows:

“309D, Sloane Street,

“May 15.

“Dear Forsyte,

“The construction of your house being now completed, my duties as architect have come to an end. If I am to go on with the business of decoration, which at your request I undertook, I should like you to clearly understand that I must have a free hand.

“You never come down without suggesting something that goes counter to my scheme. I have here three letters from you, each of which recommends an article I should never dream of putting in. I had your father here yesterday afternoon, who made further valuable suggestions.

“Please make up your mind, therefore, whether you want me to decorate for you, or to retire which on the whole I should prefer to do.

“But understand that, if I decorate, I decorate alone, without interference of any sort.

“If I do the thing, I will do it thoroughly, but I must have a free hand.

“Yours truly,

“Philip Bosinney.”

The exact and immediate cause of this letter cannot, of course, be told, though it is not improbable that Bosinney may have been moved by some sudden revolt against his position towards Soames⁠—that eternal position of Art towards Property⁠—which is so admirably summed up, on the back of the most indispensable of modern appliances, in a sentence comparable to the very finest in Tacitus:

Thos. T. Sorrow, Inventor.

Bert. M. Padland, Proprietor.

“What are you going to say to him?” James asked.

Soames did not even turn his head. “I haven’t made up my mind,” he said, and went on with his defence.

A client of his, having put some buildings on a piece of ground that did not belong to him, had been suddenly and most irritatingly warned to take them off again. After carefully going into the facts, however, Soames had seen his way to advise that his client had what was known as a title by possession, and that, though undoubtedly the ground did not belong to him, he was entitled to keep it, and had better do so; and he was now following up this advice by taking steps to⁠—as the sailors say⁠—“make it so.”

He had a distinct reputation for sound advice; people saying of him: “Go to young Forsyte⁠—a long-headed fellow!” and he prized this reputation highly.

His natural taciturnity was in his favour; nothing could be more calculated to give people, especially people with property (Soames had no other clients), the impression that he was a safe man. And he was safe. Tradition, habit, education, inherited aptitude, native caution, all joined to form a solid professional honesty, superior to temptation⁠—from the very fact that it was built on an innate avoidance of risk. How could he fall, when his soul abhorred circumstances which render a fall possible⁠—a man cannot fall off the floor!

And those