To Let by John Galsworthy (bookstand for reading .TXT) 📕

With The     Court. They Had All Had That Feeling In Differing

Measure--Soames Remembered. Swithin, Indeed, In His Most Expansive Days

Had Once Attended A Levee. He Had Come Away Saying He Shouldn't Go

Again--"All That Small Fry!" It Was Suspected That He Had Looked Too

Big In Knee-Breeches. Soames Remembered How His Own Mother Had Wished

To Be Presented Because Of     The     Fashionable Nature Of     The     Performance,

And How His Father Had Put His Foot Down With Unwonted Decision. What

Did She Want With Such Peacocking--Wasting Time And Money; There Was

Nothing In It!

The Instinct Which Had Made And Kept The     British Commons The     Chief

Power In The     State, A Feeling That Their Own World Was Good Enough And

A Little Better Than Any Other Because It Was Their World, Had Kept The

Old Forsytes Singularly Free Of     "Flummery," As Nicholas Had Been Wont

To Call It When He Had The     Gout. Soames' Generation, More

Self-Conscious And Ironical, Had Been Saved By A Sense Of     Swithin In

Knee-Breeches. While The     Third And The     Fourth Generation, As It Seemed

To Him, Laughed At Everything.

However, There Was No Harm In The     Young Fellow's Being Heir To A Title

And Estate--A Thing One Couldn't Help. He Entered Quietly, As Mont

Missed His Shot. He Noted The     Young Man's Eyes, Fixed On Fleur Bending

Over In Her Turn; And The     Adoration In Them Almost Touched Him.

She Paused With The     Cue Poised On The     Bridge Of     Her Slim Hand, And

Shook Her Crop Of     Short Dark Chestnut Hair.

 "I Shall Never Do It."

"'Nothing Venture!'"

"All Right!" The     Cue Struck, The     Ball Rolled. "There!"

"Bad Luck! Never Mind!"

Then They Saw Him, And Soames Said: "I'll Mark For You."

He Sat Down On The     Raised Seat Beneath The     Marker, Trim And Tired,

Furtively Studying Those Two Young Faces. When The     Game Was Over Mont

Came Up To Him. "I've Started In, Sir. Rum Game, Business, Isn't It? I

Suppose You Saw A Lot Of     Human Nature As A Solicitor."

"I Did."

"Shall I Tell You What I've Noticed: People Are Quite On The     Wrong

Track In Offering Less Than They Can Afford To Give; They Ought To

Offer More, And Work Backward."

Soames Raised His Eyebrows.

"Suppose The     More Is Accepted?"

"That Doesn't Matter A Little Bit," Said Mont; "It's Much More Paying

To Abate A Price Than To Increase It. For Instance, Say We Offer An

Author Good Terms--He Naturally Takes Them. Then We Go Into It, Find We

Can't Publish At A Decent Profit And Tell Him So. He's Got Confidence

In Us Because We've Been Generous To Him, And He Comes Down Like A

Lamb, And Bears Us No Malice. But If We Offer Him Poor Terms At The

Start, He Doesn't Take Them, So We Have To Advance Them To Get Him, And

He Thinks Us Damned Screws Into The     Bargain."

"Try Buying Pictures On That System"; Said Soames, "An Offer Accepted

Is A Contract--Haven't You Learned That?"

Young Mont Turned His Head To Where Fleur Was Standing In The     Window.

"No," He Said, "I Wish I Had. Then There's Another Thing. Always Let A

Man Off A Bargain If He Wants To Be Let Off."

"As Advertisement?" Said Soames Dryly.

"Of Course It Is; But I Meant On Principle."

"Does Your Firm Work On Those Lines?"

"Not Yet," Said Mont, "But It'll Come."

"And They Will Go."

"No, Really, Sir. I'm Making Any Number Of     Observations, And They All

Confirm My Theory. Human Nature Is Consistently Underrated In Business,

People Do Themselves Out Of     An Awful Lot Of     Pleasure And Profit By

That.

Of     Course, You Must Be Perfectly Genuine And Open, But That's

Easy If You Feel It. The     More Human And Generous You Are The     Better

Chance You've Got In Business."

 Soames Rose.

"Are You A Partner?"

"Not For Six Months, Yet."

"The Rest Of     The     Firm Had Better Make Haste And Retire."

Mont Laughed.

"You'll See," He Said. "There's Going To Be A Big Change. The

Possessive Principle Has Got Its Shutters Up."

"What?" Said Soames.

"The House Is To Let! Good-Bye, Sir; I'm Off Now."

Soames Watched His Daughter Give Her Hand, Saw Her Wince At The     Squeeze

It Received, And Distinctly Heard The     Young Man's Sigh As He Passed

Out. Then She Came From The     Window, Trailing Her Finger Along The

Mahogany Edge Of     The     Billiard-Table. Watching Her, Soames Knew That She

Was Going To Ask Him Something. Her Finger Felt Round The     Last Pocket,

And She Looked Up.

"Have You Done Anything To Stop Jon Writing To Me, Father?"

Soames Shook His Head.

"You Haven't Seen, Then?" He Said. "His Father Died Just A Week Ago

To-Day."

"Oh!"

In Her Startled, Frowning Face, He Saw The     Instant Struggle To

Apprehend What This Would Mean.

"Poor Jon! Why Didn't You Tell Me, Father?"

"I Never Know!" Said Soames Slowly; "You Don't Confide In Me."

 "I Would, If You'd Help Me, Dear."

"Perhaps I Shall."

Fleur Clasped Her Hands. "Oh! Darling--When One Wants A Thing

Fearfully, One Doesn't Think Of     Other People. Don't Be Angry With Me."

Soames Put Out His Hand, As If Pushing Away An Aspersion.

"I'm Cogitating," He Said. What On Earth Had Made Him Use A Word Like

That! "Has Young Mont Been Bothering You Again?"

Fleur Smiled. "Oh! Michael! He's Always Bothering; But He's Such A Good

Sort--I Don't Mind Him."

"Well," Said Soames, "I'm Tired; I Shall Go And Have A Nap Before

Dinner."

He Went Up To His Picture-Gallery, Lay Down On The     Couch There, And

Closed His Eyes. A Terrible Responsibility This Girl Of     His--Whose

Mother Was--Ah! What Was She? A Terrible Responsibility! Help Her--How

Could He Help Her? He Could Not Alter The     Fact That He Was Her Father.

Or That Irene--! What Was It Young Mont Had Said--Some Nonsense About

The Possessive Instinct--Shutters Up--To Let? Silly!

The Sultry Air, Charged With A Scent Of     Meadow-Sweet, Of     River And

Roses, Closed On His Senses, Drowsing Them.

"The Fixed Idea," Which Has Outrun More Constables Than Any Other Form

Of Human Disorder, Has Never More Speed And Stamina Than When It Takes

The Avid Guise Of     Love. To Hedges And Ditches, And Doors, To Humans

Without Ideas Fixed Or Otherwise, To Perambulators And The     Contents

Sucking Their Fixed Ideas, Even To The     Other Sufferers From This Fast

Malady--The Fixed Idea Of     Love Pays No Attention. It Runs With Eyes

Turned Inward To Its Own Light, Oblivious Of     All Other Stars. Those

With The     Fixed Ideas That Human Happiness Depends On Their Art, On

Vivisecting Dogs, On Hating Foreigners, On Paying Supertax, On

Remaining Ministers, On Making Wheels Go Round, On Preventing Their

Neighbours From Being Divorced, On Conscientious Objection, Greek

Roots, Church Dogma, Paradox And Superiority To Everybody Else, With

Other Forms Of     Ego-Mania--All Are Unstable Compared With Him Or Her

Whose Fixed Idea Is The     Possession Of     Some Her Or Him.

And Though

Fleur, Those Chilly Summer Days, Pursued The     Scattered Life Of     A Little

Forsyte Whose Frocks Are Paid For, And Whose Business Is Pleasure, She

Was--As Winifred Would Have Said In The     Latest Fashion Of

Speech--'Honest-To-God' Indifferent To It All. She Wished And Wished

For