List of arrivals? Here it was: “Hotel Potomac: Mr. and Mrs. Cyrus K. McGunn; the Misses Errick; Mr. H. Yellam Roof; Mr. Semmes Forsyth; Mr. and Mrs. Munt.” As large as life, but, fortunately, only half as natural! Forsyth! Munt! They never could get anything right in the papers. “Semmes!” Unrecognisable, he should hope. And going over to the bureau, he turned the register towards him. Yes! he had written the names quite clearly. Lucky, too, or they’d have got ’em right, by mistake. And then, turning the leaf, he read: “Mr. and Mrs. Jolyon Forsyte.” Here! At this hotel–those two! A day before them; yes, and at the very top, dated some days ago: “Mrs. Irene Forsyte.” His mind travelled with incredible swiftness. He must deal with this at once. Where were Fleur and Michael? They had seen the Freer Gallery with him yesterday, and a beautiful little Gallery it was, he had never seen anything better, and the Lincoln Memorial, and that great tower thing which he had refused to go up. This morning they had said they should go to the Corcoran Gallery, where there was a Centenary Exhibition. He had known what that meant. He had seen English centenaries in his time. All the fashionable painters of their day–and the result too melancholy for words! And to the clerk he said:
“Is there a restaurant here where I can get a good lunch?”
“Sure; they cook fine at Filler’s.”
“Good! If my daughter and her husband come in, kindly tell them to meet me at Filler’s at one o’clock.”
And, going back to the kiosk, he bought some tickets for the opera, so that they should be out in the evening, and in ten minutes was on his way to the Corcoran Gallery. From Filler’s they would go straight off to Mount Vernon; they would dine at another hotel before the opera, and tomorrow be off by the first train–he would take no chances. If only he could catch them at the Corcoran!
Arriving, he mechanically bought a catalogue and walked up-stairs. The rooms opened off the gallery and he began at the end room. Ah! there they were, in front of a picture of the setting sun! Sure of them now, but not sure of himself–Fleur was so sharp–Soames glanced at the pictures. Modern stuff, trailing behind those French extravagances Dumetrius had shown him six months ago in London. As he had thought, too, a wholesale lot; might all have been painted by the same hand. He saw Fleur touch Michael’s arm and laugh. How pretty she looked! A thousand pities to have her applecart upset again! He came up behind them. What? That setting sun was a man’s face, was it? Well, you never knew nowadays.
And he said: “I thought I’d have a look in. We’re lunching at Filler’s; they tell me it’s better than the hotel; and we can go straight on from there to Mount Vernon. I’ve got some seats for the opera, to-night, too.”
And, conscious of Fleur’s scrutiny, he stared at the picture. He did not feel too comfortable.
“Are the older pictures better?” he asked.
“Well, sir, Fleur was just saying–how can anyone go on painting in these days?”
“How do you mean?”
“If you walk through, you’ll say the same. Here’s a hundred years of it.”
“The best pictures never get into these shows,” said Soames; “they just take anything they can get. Ryder, Innes, Whistler, Sargent–the Americans have had some great painters.”
“Of course,” said Fleur. “But do you really want to go round, Dad? I’m frightfully hungry.”
“No,” said Soames; “after that Saint Gaudens thing I don’t feel like it. Let’s go and lunch.”
II
Mount Vernon! The situation was remarkable! With all that colour on the trees, the grassy cliff, and below it the broad blue Potomac, which, even Soames confessed, was more imposing than the Thames. And the low white house up here, dignified and private, indeed, except for the trippers, almost English, giving him a feeling he had not had since he left home. He could imagine that fellow George Washington being very fond of it. One could have taken to the place oneself. Lord John Russell’s old house on the hill at Richmond was something like this, except, of course, for the breadth of river, and the feeling you always had in America and Canada, so far as he had seen, that they were trying to fill the country and not succeeding–such a terrific lot of space, and apparently no time. Fleur was in raptures, and young Michael had remarked that it was “absolutely topping.” The sun fell warmly on his cheek while he took his last look from the wide porch, before entering the house itself. He should remember this–America had not all been run up yesterday! He passed into the hall and proceeded, mousing, through the lower rooms. Really! They had done it extraordinarily well. Nothing but the good old original stuff, from a century and a half ago, reminding Soames of half-hours spent in the antique shops of Taunton and Tunbridge Wells. Too much “George Washington” of course! George Washington’s mug, George Washington’s foot-bath, and his letter to so-and-so, and the lace on his collar, and his sword and his gun and everything that was his! Still, that was unavoidable! Detached from the throng, detached even from his daughter, Soames moved–covered, as in a cloak, by his collector’s habit of silent appraisement; he so disliked his judgments to be confused by uncritical imbecilities. He had reached the bedroom up-stairs where George Washington had died, and was gazing through the grille, when he heard sounds which almost froze his blood; the very voices he had listened to that morning before the Saint Gaudens statue, and with those voices Michael’s voice conjoined! Was Fleur there too? A backward glance relieved him. No! the three were standing at the head of the main stairs exchanging the remarks of strangers casually interested in the same thing. He heard Michael say, “Jolly good taste in those days.” And Jon Forsyte answering, “All hand-made, you see.”
Soames dived for the back stairs, jostled a stout lady, recoiled, stammering, and hurried on down. If Fleur was not with Michael it meant that she had got hold of the curator. Take her away, while those three were still up-stairs! That was the thought in his mind. Two young Englishmen were not likely to exchange names or anything else, and, if they did, he must get hold of Michael quickly. But how to get Fleur away? Yes, there she was–talking to the curator in front of George Washington’s flute laid down on George Washington’s harpsichord in the music-room! And Soames suffered. Revolting to seem unwell, still more revolting to pretend to seem! And yet–what else? He could not go up to her and say: “I’ve had enough. Let’s go to the car!” Swallowing violently, he put his hand to his head and went towards the harpsichord.
“Fleur!” he said, and without pausing to let her take him in, went on: “I’m not feeling the thing. I must go to the car.”
The words no doubt were startling, coming from one so undramatic.
“Dad! What is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Soames; “giddy. Give me your arm.”
Really dreadful to him–the whole thing! On the way to the car, parked at the entrance, her concern was so embarrassing that he very nearly abandoned his ruse. But he managed to murmur:
“I’ve been doing too much, I expect; or else it’s that cookery. I’ll just sit quiet in the car.”
To his great relief she sat down with him, got out her smelling-bottle, and sent the chauffeur to tell Michael. Soames was touched, though incommoded by having to sniff the salts, which were very strong.
“Great fuss about nothing,” he muttered.
“We’d better get home, dear, at once, so that you can lie down.”
In a few minutes Michael came hurrying. He too expressed what seemed to Soames a genuine concern, and the car was started. Soames sat back with his hand in Fleur’s, and his mouth and eyes tight closed, feeling perhaps better than he’d ever felt in his life. Before they reached Alexandria he opened his lips to say that he had spoiled their trip for them; they must go home by way of Arlington, and he would stay in the car while they had a look at it. Fleur was for going straight on, but he insisted. Arrived, however, at this other white house, also desirably situated on the slope above the river, he almost had a fit while waiting for them in the car. What if the same idea had occurred to Jon Forsyte and he were suddenly to drive up? It was an intense relief when they came out again, saying that it was nice but not a patch on Mount Vernon: the porch columns were too thick. When the car was again traversing the bright woods Soames opened his eyes for good.
“I’m all right again, now. It was liver, I expect.”
“You ought to have some brandy, Dad. We can get some on a doctor’s prescription.”
“Doctor? Nonsense. We’ll dine up-stairs and I’ll get over the waiter; they must have something in the house.”
Dine up-stairs! That was a happy thought!
In their sitting-room he lay down on the sofa, touched and gratified, for Fleur was plopping up his cushions, shading the light, looking over the top of her book to see how he was. He did not remember when he had felt so definitely that she really did care about him. He even thought: ‘I ought to be ill a little, every now and then!’ And yet, if he ever complained of feeling ill at home, Annette at once complained of feeling worse!
Close by, in the little salon opposite the stairs, a piano was being played.
“Does that music worry you, dear?”
Into Soames’ mind flashed the thought ‘Irene!’ If it were, and Fleur were to go out to stop it, then, indeed, would fat be in the fire!
“No; I rather like it,” he said, hastily.
“It’s a very good touch.”
Irene’s touch! He remembered how June used to praise her touch; remembered how he had caught that fellow Bosinney listening to her, in the little drawing-room in Montpellier Square, with the wild-cat look on his face, the fellow had;
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