To Let | Page 7

danger."
Over George's face moved a gleam of sardonic self-defence.

"Well," he said, "they brought me up to do nothing, and here I am in
the sere and yellow, getting poorer every day. These Labour chaps
mean to have the lot before they've done. What are you going to do for
a living when it comes? I shall work a six-hour day teaching politicians
how to see a joke. Take my tip, Soames; go into Parliament, make sure
of your four hundred--and employ me."
And, as Soames retired, he resumed his seat in the bay window.
Soames moved along Piccadilly deep in reflections excited by his
cousin's words. He himself had always been a worker and a saver,
George always a drone and a spender; and yet, if confiscation once
began, it was he--the worker and the saver--who would be looted! That
was the negation of all virtue, the overturning of all Forsyte principles.
Could civilisation be built on any other? He did not think so. Well, they
wouldn't confiscate his pictures, for they wouldn't know their worth.
But what would they be worth, if these maniacs once began to milk
capital? A drug on the market. 'I don't care about myself,' he thought; 'I
could live on five hundred a year, and never know the difference, at my
age.' But Fleur! This fortune, so wisely invested, these treasures so
carefully chosen and amassed, were all for her. And if it should turn out
that he couldn't give or leave them to her--well, life had no meaning,
and what was the use of going in to look at this crazy, futuristic stuff
with the view of seeing whether it had any future?
Arriving at the Gallery off Cork Street, however, he paid his shilling,
picked up a catalogue, and entered. Some ten persons were prowling
round. Soames took steps and came on what looked to him like a
lamp-post bent by collision with a motor omnibus. It was advanced
some three paces from the wall, and was described in his catalogue as
"Jupiter." He examined it with curiosity, having recently turned some
of his attention to sculpture. 'If that's Jupiter,' he thought, 'I wonder
what Juno's like.' And suddenly he saw her, opposite. She appeared to
him like nothing so much as a pump with two handles, lightly clad in
snow. He was still gazing at her, when two of the prowlers halted on
his left. "Epatant!" he heard one say.
"Jargon!" growled Soames to himself.

The other's boyish voice replied:
"Missed it, old bean; he's pulling your leg. When Jove and Juno created
he them, he was saying: 'I'll see how much these fools will swallow.'
And they've lapped up the lot."
"You young duffer! Vospovitch is an innovator. Don't you see that he's
brought satire into sculpture? The future of plastic art, of music,
painting, and even architecture, has set in satiric. It was bound to.
People are tired--the bottom's tumbled out of sentiment."
"Well, I'm quite equal to taking a little interest in beauty. I was through
the War. You've dropped your handkerchief, sir."
Soames saw a handkerchief held out in front of him. He took it with
some natural suspicion, and approached it to his nose. It had the right
scent--of distant Eau de Cologne--and his initials in a corner. Slightly
reassured, he raised his eyes to the young man's face. It had rather
fawn-like ears, a laughing mouth, with half a toothbrush growing out of
it on each side, and small lively eyes, above a normally dressed
appearance.
"Thank you," he said; and moved by a sort of irritation, added: "Glad to
hear you like beauty; that's rare, nowadays."
"I dote on it," said the young man; "but you and I are the last of the old
guard, sir."
Soames smiled.
"If you really care for pictures," he said, "here's my card. I can show
you some quite good ones any Sunday, if you're down the river and
care to look in."
"Awfully nice of you, sir. I'll drop in like a bird. My name's
Mont-Michael." And he took off his hat.
Soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly in

response, with a downward look at the young man's companion, who
had a purple tie, dreadful little slug-like whiskers, and a scornful
look--as if he were a poet!
It was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he went
and sat down in an alcove. What had possessed him to give his card to
a rackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like that? And
Fleur, always at the back of his thoughts, started out like a filagree
figure from a clock when the hour strikes. On the screen opposite the
alcove was a large canvas with a great many square