a raised eyebrow and the half-lidded eyes despised as ever the bitter crow’s-footed exhaustion on his face. And that indefinable look of a damned soul, lost to all but its contempt for emotion, awakened within Soames, just as it had before, the queerest little quirk of sympathy.
“He’d better have a drink,” he said.
Val moved back to the sideboard.
They heard the bell, voices in the hall; then Smither appeared, red, breathless, deprecatory.
“Will you see that gentleman, sir, who took the you know what, sir?”
“Show him in, Smither.”
Val turned towards the door. Soames remained seated.
The “languid beggar” entered, nodded to Val, and raised his eyebrows at Soames, who said:
“How d’you do, Mr. Stainford?”
“Mr. Forsyte, I think?”
“Whisky or brandy, Stainford?”
“Brandy, thanks.”
“Smoke, won’t you? You wanted to see me. My uncle here is my solicitor.”
Soames saw Stainford smile. It was as if he had said: “Really! How wonderful these people are!” He lighted the proffered cigar, and there was silence.
“Well?” said Val, at last.
“I’m sorry your ‘Sleeping Dove’ colt’s gone amiss, Dartie.”
“How did you know that?”
“Exactly! But before I tell you, d’you mind giving me fifty pounds and your word that my name’s not mentioned.”
Soames and his nephew stared in silence. At last Val said:
“What guarantee have I that your information’s worth fifty pounds, or even five?”
“The fact that I knew your colt had gone amiss.”
However ignorant of the turf, Soames could see that the fellow had scored.
“You mean you know where the leakage is?”
Stainford nodded.
“We were College pals,” said Val. “What would you expect me to do if I knew that about a stable of yours?”
“My dear Dartie, there’s no analogy. You’re a man of means, I’m not.”
Trite expressions were knocking against Soames’ palate. He swallowed them. What use in talking to a chap like this!
“Fifty pounds is a lot,” said Val. “Is your information of real value?”
“Yes–on my word of honour.”
Soames sniffed audibly.
“If I buy this leakage from you,” said Val, “can you guarantee that it won’t break out, in another direction?”
“Highly improbable that two pipes will leak in your stable.”
“I find it hard to believe there’s one.”
“Well, there is.”
Soames saw his nephew move up to the table and begin counting over a roll of notes.
“Tell me what you know, first, and I’ll give them to you if on the face of it your information’s probable. I won’t mention your name.”
Soames saw the languid eyebrows lift.
“I’m not so distrustful as you, Dartie. Get rid of a boy called Sinnet–that’s where your stable leaks.”
“Sinnet?” said Val; “My best boy? What proof have you?”
Stainford took out a dirty piece of writing paper and held it up. Val read aloud:
“‘The grey colt’s amiss all right–he’ll be no good for Goodwood.’ All right?” he repeated: “Does that mean he engineered it?”
Stainford shrugged his shoulders.
“Can I have this bit of paper?” said Val.
“If you’ll promise not to show it to him.”
Val nodded and took the paper.
“Do you know his writing?” asked Soames: “All this is very fishy.”
“Not yet,” said Val, and to Soames’ horror, put the notes into the outstretched hand. The little sigh the fellow gave was distinctly audible. Val said suddenly:
“Did you get at him the day you came down to see me?”
Stainford smiled faintly, shrugged his shoulders again and turned to the door. “Good-bye, Dartie,” he said.
Soames’ mouth fell open. The return match was over! The fellow had gone!
“Here!” he said. “Don’t let him go like that. It’s monstrous.”
“Dam’ funny!” said Val suddenly, and began to laugh. “Oh! dam’ funny!”
“Funny!” muttered Soames. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
“Never mind, Uncle Soames. He’s taken fifty of the best of me, but it was worth it. Sinnet, my best boy!”
Soames continued to mutter:
“To corrupt one of your men, and get you to pay him for it. It’s the limit.”
“That’s what tickles me, Uncle Soames. Well, I’ll go back to Wansdon now, and get rid of that young blackguard.”
“I shouldn’t have any scruple, if I were you, in telling him exactly how you got the knowledge.”
“Well, I don’t know. Stainford’s on his beam ends. I’m not a moralist, but I think I’ll keep my word to him.”
For a moment Soames said nothing; then, with a sidelong glance at his nephew:
“Well, perhaps. But he ought to be locked up.”
With those words he walked into the hall and counted the umbrellas. Their number was undiminished, and taking one of them, he went out. He felt in need of air. With the exception of that Elderson affair, he had encountered little flagrant dishonesty in his time, and that only in connection with the lower classes. One could forgive a poor devil of a tramp, or even a clerk or domestic servant. They had temptations, and no particular traditions to live up to. But what was coming to the world, if you couldn’t rely on gentlemen in a simple matter like honesty! Every day one read cases, and for every one that came into Court one might be sure there were a dozen that didn’t! And when you added all the hanky-panky in the City, all the dubious commissions, bribery of the police, sale of honours–though he believed that had been put a stop to–all the dicky-dealing over contracts, it was enough to make one’s hair stand on end. They might sneer at the past, and no doubt there was more temptation in the present, but something simple and straightforward seemed to have perished out of life. By hook or by crook people had to get their ends, would no longer wait for their ends to come to them. Everybody was in such a hurry to make good, or rather bad! Get money at all costs-look at the quack remedies they sold and the books they published now-a-days, without caring for truth or decency or anything. And the advertisements! Good Lord!
In the gloom of these reflections he had come to Westminster. He might as well call in at South Square and see if Fleur had telephoned her arrival at the sea! In the hall eight hats of differing shape and colour lay on the coat-sarcophagus. What the deuce was going on? A sound of voices came from the dining-room, then the peculiar drone of somebody making a speech. Some meeting or other of Michael’s, and the measles only just out of the house!
“What’s going on here?” he said to Coaker.
“Something to do with the slums, sir. I believe; they’re converting of them, I heard Mr. Mont say.”
“Don’t put my hat with those,” said Soames; “have you had any message from your mistress?”
“Yes, sir. They had a good journey. The little dog was sick, I believe. He will have his own way.”
“Well,” said Soames, “I’ll go up and wait in the study.”
On getting there, he noticed a water-colour drawing on the bureau: a tree with large dark green leaves and globular golden fruit, against a silvery sort of background–peculiar thing, amateurish, but somehow arresting. Underneath, he recognized his daughter’s handwriting:
“The Golden Apple: F.M. 1926.”
Really he had no idea that she could use water-colour as well as that! She was a clever little thing! And he put the drawing up on end where he could see it better! Apple? Passion-fruit, he would have said, of an exaggerated size. Thoroughly uneatable–they had a glow like lanterns. Forbidden fruit! Eve might have given them to Adam. Was this thing symbolic? Did it fancifully reveal her thoughts? And in front of it he fell into sombre mood, which was broken by the opening of the door. Michael had entered.
“Hallo, sir!”
“Hallo!” replied Soames: “What’s this thing?”
Chapter XI.
CONVERTING THE SLUMS
In an Age governed almost exclusively by Committees, Michael knew fairly well what Committees were governed by. A Committee must not meet too soon after food, for then the Committeemen would sleep; nor too soon before food, because then the Committeemen would be excitable. The Committeemen should be allowed to say what they liked, without direction, until each was tired of hearing the others say it. But there must be some one present, preferably the Chairman, who said little, thought more, and could be relied on to be awake when that moment was reached, whereupon a middle policy voiced by him to exhausted receivers, would probably be adopted.
Having secured his bishop, and Sir Godfrey Bedwin, who specialised in chests, and failed with his Uncle Lionel Charwell, who had scented the work destined for Lady Alison his wife, Michael convened the first meeting for three o’clock in South Square on the day of Fleur’s departure for the sea. Hilary was present, and a young woman, to take them down. Surprise came early. They all attended, and fell into conversation around the Spanish table. It was plain to Michael that the bishop and Sir Timothy Fanfield had expectations of the Chair; and he kicked his father under the table, fearing that one of them might propose the other in the hope of the other proposing the one. Sir Lawrence then murmured:
“My dear, that’s my shin.”
“I know,” muttered Michael; “shall we get on with it?”
Dropping his eyeglass, Sir Lawrence said:
“Exactly! Gentlemen, I propose that the Squire takes the Chair. Will you second that, Marquess?”
The Marquess nodded.
The blow was well received, and the Squire proceeded to the head of the table. He began as follows:–
“I won’t beat about the bush. You all know as much about it as I do, which is precious little. The whole thing is the idea of Mr. Hilary Charwell here, so I’ll ask him to explain it to us.
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