He was looking at the pony through his curved thumb and forefinger when he heard a slight sound; and, turning, saw a short old man in a tweed suit, apparently looking at him in precisely the same way.
Dropping his hand, and deciding not to say “His Grace,” or whatever it was, Soames muttered:
“I was looking at the tail—some good painting in that.”
The Marquess had also dropped his hand, and was consulting the card between his other thumb and forefinger.
“Mr. Forsyte? Yes. My grandfather bought it from the painter. There’s a note on the back. I don’t want to part with it, but these are lean days. Would you like to see the back?”
“Yes,” said Soames; “I always look at their backs.”
“Sometimes,” said the Marquess, detaching the Morland with difficulty, “the best part of the picture.”
Soames smiled down the further side of his mouth; he did not wish the old fellow to receive a false impression that he was ‘kowtowing,’ or anything of that sort.
“Something in the hereditary principle, Mr. Forsyte,” the Marquess went on, with his head on one side, “when it comes to the sale of heirlooms.”
“Oh! I can see it’s genuine,” said Soames, “without looking at the back.”
“Then, if you do want to buy, we can have a simple transaction between gentlemen. You know all about values, I hear.”
Soames put his head to the other side, and looked at the back of the picture. The old fellow’s words were so disarming, that for the life of him he could not tell whether or not to be disarmed.
“‘George Morland to Lord George Ferrar,’” he read, “‘for value received—L80. 1797.’”
“He came into the title later,” said the Marquess. “I’m glad Morland got his money—great rips, our grandfathers, Mr. Forsyte; days of great rips, those.”
Subtly flattered by the thought that “Superior Dosset” was a great rip, Soames expanded slightly.
“Great rip, Morland,” he said. “But there were real painters then, people could buy with confidence—they can’t now.”
“I’m not sure,” said the Marquess, “I’m not sure. The electrification of art may be a necessary process. We’re all in a movement, Mr. Forsyte.”
“Yes,” said Soames, glumly; “but we can’t go on at this rate—it’s not natural. We shall be standing-pat again before long.”
“I wonder. We must keep our minds open, mustn’t we?”
“The pace doesn’t matter so much,” said Soames, astonished at himself, “so long as it leads somewhere.”
The Marquess resigned the picture to the sideboard, and putting his foot up on a chair, leaned his elbow on his knee.
“Did your son-inlaw tell you for what I wanted the money? He has a scheme for electrifying slum kitchens. After all, we ARE cleaner and more humane than our grandfathers, Mr. Forsyte. Now, what do you think would be a fair price?”
“Why not get Dumetrius’ opinion?”
“The Haymarket man? Is his opinion better than yours?”
“That I can’t say,” said Soames, honestly. “But if you mentioned my name, he’d value the picture for five guineas, and might make you an offer himself.”
“I don’t think I should care for it to be known that I was selling pictures.”
“Well,” said Soames, “I don’t want you to get less than perhaps you could. But if I told Dumetrius to buy me a Morland, five hundred would be my limit. Suppose I give you six.”
The Marquess tilted up his beard. “That would be too generous, perhaps. Shall we say five-fifty?”
Soames shook his head.
“We won’t haggle,” he said. “Six. You can have the cheque now, and I’ll take it away. It will hang in my gallery at Mapledurham.”
The Marquess took his foot down, and sighed.
“Really, I’m very much obliged to you. I’m delighted to think it will go to a good home.”
“If you care to come and see it at any time—” Soames checked himself. An old fellow with one foot in the House of Lords and one in the grave, and no difference between them, to speak of—as if he’d want to come!
“That would be delightful,” said the Marquess, with his eyes wandering, as Soames had suspected they would. “Have you your own electric plant there?”
“Yes,” and Soames took out his cheque-book. “May I have a taxi called? If you hang the still-lifes a little closer together, this won’t be missed.”
With that doubtful phrase in their ears, they exchanged goods, and Soames, with the Morland, returned to Green Street in a cab. He wondered a little on the way whether or not the Marquess had ‘done’ him, by talking about a transaction between gentlemen. Agreeable old chap in his way, but quick as a bird, looking through his thumb and finger like that!…
And now, in his daughter’s ‘parlour’ he said: “What’s this about Michael electrifying slum kitchens?”
Fleur smiled, and Soames did not approve of its irony.
“Michael’s over head and ears.”
“In debt?”
“Oh, no! Committed himself to a slum scheme, just as he did to Foggartism. I hardly see him.”
Soames made a sound within himself. Young Jon Forsyte lurked now behind all his thoughts of her. Did she really resent Michael’s absorption in public life, or was it pretence—an excuse for having a private life of her own?
“The slums want attending to, no doubt,” he said. “He must have something to do.”
Fleur shrugged.
“Michael’s too good to live.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Soames; “but he’s—er—rather trustful.”
“That’s not your failing, is it, Dad? You don’t trust ME a bit.”
“Not trust you!” floundered Soames. “Why not?”
“Exactly!”
Soames sought refuge in the Fragonard. Sharp! She had seen into him!
“I suppose June wants me to buy a picture,” he said.
“She wants you to have me painted.”
“Does she? What’s the name of her lame duck?”
“Blade, I think.”
“Never heard of him!”
“Well, I expect you will.”
“Yes,” muttered Soames; “she’s like a limpet. It’s in the blood.”
“The Forsyte blood? You and I, then, too, dear.”
Soames turned from the Fragonard and looked her straight in the eyes.
“Yes; you and I, too.”
“Isn’t that nice?” said Fleur.
Chapter VIII.
THE JOLLY ACCIDENT
In doubting Fleur’s show of resentment at Michael’s new “stunt,” Soames was near the mark. She did not resent it at all. It kept his attention off herself, it kept him from taking up birth control, for which she felt the country was not yet quite prepared, and it had a popular appeal denied to Foggartism. The slums were under one’s nose, and what was under the nose could be brought to the attention even of party politics. Being a town proposition, slums would concern six-sevenths of the vote. Foggartism, based on the country life necessary to national stamina and the growth of food within and overseas, concerned the whole population, but only appealed to one-seventh of the vote. And Fleur, nothing if not a realist, had long grasped the fact that the main business of politicians was to be, and to remain, elected. The vote was a magnet of the first order, and unconsciously swayed every political judgment and aspiration; or, if not, it ought to, for was it not the touchstone of democracy? In the committee, too, which Michael was forming, she saw, incidentally, the best social step within her reach.