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

Park When She Went To Town. She Even Kept Jon's Letters Covered With

Pink Silk, On Her Heart, Than Which In Days When Corsets Were So Low,

Sentiment So Despised, And Chests So Out Of     Fashion, There Could,

Perhaps, Have Been No Greater Proof Of     The     Fixity Of     Her Idea.

After Hearing Of     His Father's Death, She Had Written To Jon, And

Received His Answer Three Days Later On Her Return From A River Picnic.

It Was His First Letter Since Their Meeting At June's. She Opened It

With Misgiving, And Read It With Dismay.

"Since I Saw You I've Heard Everything About The     Past. I Won't Tell It

You--I Think You Knew When We Met At June's. She Says You Did. If You

Did, Fleur, You Ought To Have Told Me. I Expect You Only Heard Your

Father's Side Of     It. I Have Heard My Mother's. It's Dreadful. Now That

She's So Sad I Can't Do Anything To Hurt Her More. Of     Course, I Long

For You All Day, But I Don't Believe Now That We Shall Ever Come

Together--There's Something Too Strong Pulling Us Apart."

Her Deception Had Found Her Out. But Jon--She Felt--Had Forgiven That.

It Was What He Said Of     His Mother Which Caused The     Fluttering In Her

Heart And The     Weak Sensation In Her Legs.

Her First Impulse Was To Reply--Her Second, Not To Reply. These

Impulses Were Constantly Renewed In The     Days Which Followed, While

Desperation Grew Within Her. She Was Not Her Father's Child For

Nothing. The     Tenacity, Which Had At Once Made And Undone Soames, Was

Her Backbone, Too, Frilled And Embroidered By French Grace And

Quickness. Instinctively She Conjugated The     Verb "To Have" Always With

The Pronoun "I." She Concealed, However, All Signs Of     Her Growing

Desperation, And Pursued Such River Pleasures As The     Winds And Rain Of

A Disagreeable July Permitted, As If She Had No Care In The     World; Nor

Did Any "Sucking Baronet" Ever Neglect The     Business Of     A Publisher More

Consistently Than Her Attendant Spirit, Michael Mont.

To Soames She Was A Puzzle. He Was Almost Deceived By This Careless

Gaiety. Almost--Because He Did Not Fail To Mark Her Eyes Often Fixed On

Nothing, And The     Film Of     Light Shining From Her Bedroom Window Late At

Night. What Was She Thinking And Brooding Over Into Small Hours When

She Ought To Have Been Asleep? But He Dared Not Ask What Was In Her

Mind; And, Since That One Little Talk In The     Billiard-Room, She Said

Nothing To Him.

In This Taciturn Condition Of     Affairs It Chanced That Winifred Invited

Them To Lunch And To Go Afterwards To "A Most Amusing Little Play, 'The

Beggar's Opera,'" And Would They Bring A Man To Make Four? Soames,

Whose Attitude Towards Theatres Was To Go To Nothing, Accepted, Because

Fleur's Attitude Was To Go To Everything. They Motored Up, Taking

Michael Mont, Who, Being In His Seventh Heaven, Was Found By Winifred

"Very Amusing." "The Beggar's Opera" Puzzled Soames. The     People Were

Unpleasant, The     Whole Thing Cynical. Winifred Was "Intrigued"--By The

Dresses. The     Music Too Did Not Displease Her. At The     Opera, The     Night

Before, She Had Arrived Too Early For The     Russian Ballet, And Found The

Stage Occupied By Singers, For A Whole Hour Pale Or Apoplectic From

Terror Lest By Some Dreadful Inadvertence They Might Drop Into A Tune.

Michael Mont Was Enraptured With The     Whole Thing. And All Three

Wondered What Fleur Was Thinking Of     It. But Fleur Was Not Thinking Of

It. Her Fixed Idea Stood On The     Stage And Sang With Polly Peachum,

Mimed With Filch, Danced With Jenny Diver, Postured With Lucy Lockit,

Kissed, Trolled, And Cuddled With Macheath. Her Lips Might Smile, Her

Hands Applaud, But The     Comic Old Masterpiece Made No More Impression On

Her Than If It Had Been Pathetic, Like A Modern "Revue." When They

Embarked In The     Car To Return, She Ached Because Jon Was Not Sitting

Next Her Instead Of     Michael Mont. When, At Some Jolt, The     Young Man's

Arm Touched Hers As If By Accident, She Only Thought: 'If That Were

Jon's Arm!' When His Cheerful Voice, Tempered By Her Proximity,

Murmured Above The     Sound Of     The     Car's Progress, She Smiled And

Answered, Thinking: 'If That Were Jon's Voice!' And When Once He Said:

"Fleur, You Look A Perfect Angel In That Dress!" She Answered: "Oh, Do

You Like It?" Thinking: 'If Only Jon Could See It!'

During This Drive She Took A Resolution. She Would Go To Robin Hill And

See Him--Alone; She Would Take The     Car, Without Word Beforehand To Him

Or To Her Father. It Was Nine Days Since His Letter, And She Could Wait

No Longer.

On Monday She Would Go! The     Decision Made Her Well Disposed

Towards Young Mont. With Something To Look Forward To She Could Afford

To Tolerate And Respond. He Might Stay To Dinner; Propose To Her As

Usual; Dance With Her, Press Her Hand, Sigh--Do What He Liked. He Was

Only A Nuisance When He Interfered With Her Fixed Idea. She Was Even

Sorry For Him So Far As It Was Possible To Be Sorry For Anybody But

Herself Just Now. At Dinner He Seemed To Talk More Wildly Than Usual

About What He Called 'The Death Of     The     Close Borough'--She Paid Little

Attention, But Her Father Seemed Paying A Good Deal, With A Smile On

His Face Which Meant Opposition, If Not Anger.

"The Younger Generation Doesn't Think As You Do, Sir; Does It, Fleur?"

Fleur Shrugged Her Shoulders--The Younger Generation Was Just Jon, And

She Did Not Know What He Was Thinking.

"Young People Will Think As I Do When They're My Age, Mr. Mont. Human

Nature Doesn't Change."

"I Admit That, Sir; But The     Forms Of     Thought Change With The     Times. The

Pursuit Of     Self-Interest Is A Form Of     Thought That's Going Out."

"Indeed! To Mind One's Own Business Is Not A Form Of     Thought, Mr. Mont,

It's An Instinct."

Yes, When Jon Was The     Business!

"But What Is One's Business, Sir? That's The     Point, Everybody's

Business Is Going To Be One's Business. Isn't It, Fleur?"

Fleur Only Smiled.

"If Not," Added Young Mont, "There'll Be Blood."

"People Have Talked Like That From Time Immemorial."

"But You'll Admit, Sir, That The     Sense Of     Property Is Dying Out?"

"I Should Say Increasing Among Those Who Have None."

"Well, Look At Me! I'm Heir To An Entailed Estate. I Don't Want The

Thing; I'd Cut The     Entail To-Morrow."

"You're Not Married, And You Don't Know What You're Talking About."

Fleur Saw The     Young Man's Eyes Turn Rather Piteously Upon Her.

"Do You Really Mean That Marriage--?" He Began.

"Society Is Built On Marriage," Came From Between Her Father's Close

Lips; "Marriage And Its Consequences. Do You Want To Do Away With It?"

Young Mont Made A Distracted Gesture. Silence Brooded Over The

Dinner-Table, Covered With Spoons Bearing The     Forsyte Crest--A Pheasant

Proper--Under The     Electric Light In An Alabaster Globe. And Outside,

The River Evening Darkened, Charged With Heavy Moisture And Sweet

Scents.

'Monday,' Thought Fleur; 'Monday!'

The Weeks Which Followed The     Death Of     His Father Were Sad And Empty To

The Only Jolyon Forsyte Left. The     Necessary Forms And Ceremonies--The

Reading Of     The     Will, Valuation Of     The     Estate, Distribution Of     The

Legacies--Were Enacted Over The     Head, As It Were, Of     One Not Yet Of

Age. Jolyon Was Cremated. By His Special Wish No One Attended That

Ceremony, Or Wore Black For Him. The     Succession Of     His Property,

Controlled To Some Extent By Old Jolyon's Will, Left His Widow In

Possession Of     Robin Hill, With Two Thousand Five Hundred Pounds A Year

For Life. Apart From This The     Two Wills Worked Together In Some

Complicated Way To Insure That Each Of     Jolyon's Three Children Should

Have An Equal Share In Their Grandfather's And Father's Property In The

Future As In The     Present, Save Only That Jon, By Virtue Of     His Sex,

Would Have Control Of     His Capital When He Was Twenty-One, While June

And Holly Would Only Have The     Spirit Of     Theirs, In Order That Their

Children Might Have The     Body After Them. If They Had No Children, It

Would All Come To Jon If He Outlived Them; And Since June Was Fifty,

And Holly Nearly Forty, It Was Considered In Lincoln's Inn Fields That

But For The     Cruelty Of     Income Tax, Young Jon Would Be As Warm A Man As

His Grandfather When He Died. All This Was Nothing To Jon, And Little

Enough To His Mother. It Was June Who Did Everything Needful For One

Who Had Left His Affairs In Perfect Order. When She Had Gone, And Those

Two Were Alone Again In The     Great House, Alone With Death Drawing Them

Together, And Love Driving Them Apart, Jon Passed Very Painful Days

Secretly Disgusted And Disappointed With Himself. His Mother Would Look

At Him With A Patient Sadness Which Yet Had In It An Instinctive Pride,

As If She Were Reserving Her Defence. If She Smiled He Was Angry That

His Answering Smile Should Be So Grudging And Unnatural. He Did Not

Judge Or Condemn Her; That Was All Too Remote--Indeed, The     Idea Of

Doing So Had Never Come To Him. No! He Was Grudging And Unnatural

Because He Couldn't Have What He Wanted Because Of     Her. There Was One

Alleviation--Much To Do In Connection With His Father's Career, Which

Could Not Be Safely Intrusted To June, Though She Had Offered To

Undertake It.