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

Her Eyes Wandered From The     Prelate In His Robes (A

Charwell--The Forsytes Had Not As Yet Produced A Prelate) To Val,

Beside Her, Thinking--She Was Certain Of--The Mayfly Filly At Fifteen

To One For The     Cambridgeshire. They Passed On And Caught The     Profile Of

The Ninth Baronet, In Counterfeitment Of     The     Kneeling Process. She

Could Just See The     Neat Ruck Above His Knees Where He Had Pulled His

Trousers Up, And Thought: 'Val's Forgotten To Pull Up His!' Her Eyes

Passed To The     Pew In Front Of     Her, Where Winifred's Substantial Form

Was Gowned With Passion, And On Again To Soames And Annette Kneeling

Side By Side. A Little Smile Came On Her Lips--Prosper Profond, Back

From The     South Seas Of     The     Channel, Would Be Kneeling Too, About Six

Rows Behind. Yes! This Was A Funny "Small" Business, However It Turned

Out; Still It Was In A Proper Church And Would Be In The     Proper Papers

To-Morrow Morning.

They Had Begun A Hymn; She Could Hear The     Ninth Baronet Across The

Aisle, Singing Of     The     Hosts Of     Midian. Her Little Finger Touched Val's

Thumb--They Were Holding The     Same Hymn-Book--And A Tiny Thrill Passed

Through Her, Preserved From Twenty Years Ago. He Stooped And Whispered:

"I Say, D'you Remember The     Rat?" The     Rat At Their Wedding In Cape

Colony, Which Had Cleaned Its Whiskers Behind The     Table At The

Registrar's! And Between Her Little And Third Finger She Squeezed His

Thumb Hard.

The Hymn Was Over, The     Prelate Had Begun To Deliver His Discourse. He

Told Them Of     The     Dangerous Times They Lived In, And The     Awful Conduct

Of The     House Of     Lords In Connection With Divorce. They Were All

Soldiers--He Said--In The     Trenches Under The     Poisonous Gas Of     The

Prince Of     Darkness, And Must Be Manful. The     Purpose Of     Marriage Was

Children, Not Mere Sinful Happiness.

An Imp Danced In Holly's Eyes--Val's Eyelashes Were Meeting. Whatever

Happened, He Must Not Snore. Her Finger And Thumb Closed On His Thigh;

Till He Stirred Uneasily.

The Discourse Was Over, The     Danger Past. They Were Signing In The

Vestry; And General Relaxation Had Set In.

A Voice Behind Her Said:

"Will She Stay The     Course?"

"Who's That?" She Whispered.

"Old George Forsyte!"

Holly Demurely Scrutinised One Of     Whom She Had Often Heard. Fresh From

South Africa, And Ignorant Of     Her Kith And Kin, She Never Saw One

Without An Almost Childish Curiosity. He Was Very Big, And Very Dapper;

His Eyes Gave Her A Funny Feeling Of     Having No Particular Clothes.

"They're Off!" She Heard Him Say.

They Came, Stepping From The     Chancel. Holly Looked First In Young

Mont's Face. His Lips And Ears Were Twitching, His Eyes, Shifting From

His Feet To The     Hand Within His Arm, Stared Suddenly Before Them As If

To Face A Firing Party. He Gave Holly The     Feeling That He Was

Spiritually Intoxicated. But Fleur! Ah! That Was Different. The     Girl

Was Perfectly Composed, Prettier Than Ever, In Her White Robes And Veil

Over Her Banged Dark Chestnut Hair; Her Eyelids Hovered Demure Over Her

Dark Hazel Eyes. Outwardly, She Seemed All There. But, Inwardly, Where

Was She? As Those Two Passed, Fleur Raised Her Eyelids--The Restless

Glint Of     Those Clear Whites Remained On Holly's Vision As Might The

Flutter Of     A Caged Bird's Wings.

 In Green Street Winifred Stood To Receive, Just A Little Less Composed

Than Usual. Soames' Request For The     Use Of     Her House Had Come On Her At

A Deeply Psychological Moment. Under The     Influence Of     A Remark Of

Prosper Profond, She Had Begun To Exchange Her Empire For

Expressionistic Furniture.

There Were The     Most Amusing Arrangements,

With Violet, Green, And Orange Blobs And Scriggles, To Be Had At

Mealard's. Another Month And The     Change Would Have Been Complete. Just

Now, The     Very "Intriguing" Recruits She Had Enlisted Did Not March Too

Well With The     Old Guard. It Was As If Her Regiment Were Half In Khaki,

Half In Scarlet And Bearskins. But Her Strong And Comfortable Character

Made The     Best Of     It In A Drawing-Room Which Typified, Perhaps, More

Perfectly Than She Imagined, The     Semi-Bolshevised Imperialism Of     Her

Country. After All, This Was A Day Of     Merger, And You Couldn't Have Too

Much Of     It! Her Eyes Travelled Indulgently Among Her Guests. Soames Had

Gripped The     Back Of     A Buhl Chair; Young Mont Was Behind That "Awfully

Amusing" Screen, Which No One As Yet Had Been Able To Explain To Her.

The Ninth Baronet Had Shied Violently At A Round Scarlet Table, Inlaid

Tinder Glass With Blue Australian Butterflies' Wings, And Was Clinging

To Her Louis-Quinze Cabinet; Francie Forsyte Had Seized The     New

Mantel-Board, Finely Carved With Little Purple Grotesques On An Ebony

Ground; George, Over By The     Old Spinet, Was Holding A Little Sky-Blue

Book As If About To Enter Bets; Prosper Profond Was Twiddling The     Knob

Of The     Open Door, Black With Peacock-Blue Panels; And Annette's Hands,

Close By, Were Grasping Her Own Waist; Two Muskhams Clung To The

Balcony Among The     Plants, As If Feeling Ill; Lady Mont, Thin And

Brave-Looking, Had Taken Up Her Long-Handled Glasses And Was Gazing At

The Central Light Shade, Of     Ivory And Orange Dashed With Deep Magenta,

As If The     Heavens Had Opened. Everybody, In Fact, Seemed Holding On To

Something. Only Fleur, Still In Her Bridal Dress, Was Detached From All

Support, Flinging Her Words And Glances To Left And Right.

The Room Was Full Of     The     Bubble And The     Squeak Of     Conversation. Nobody

Could Hear Anything That Anybody Said; Which Seemed Of     Little

Consequence, Since No One Waited For Anything So Slow As An Answer.

Modern Conversation Seemed To Winifred So Different From The     Days Of

Her Prime, When A Drawl Was All The     Vogue. Still It Was Diverting,

Which, Of     Course, Was All That Mattered. Even The     Forsytes Were Talking

With Extreme Rapidity--Fleur And Christopher, And Imogen, And Young

Nicholas's Youngest, Patrick. Soames, Of     Course, Was Silent; But

George, By The     Spinet, Kept Up A Running Commentary, And Francie, By

Her Mantel-Shelf. Winifred Drew Nearer To The     Ninth Baronet.

He Seemed

To Promise A Certain Repose; His Nose Was Fine And Drooped A Little,

His Grey Moustaches Too; And She Said, Drawling Through Her Smile;

"It's Rather Nice, Isn't It?"

His Reply Shot Out Of     His Smile Like A Snipped Bread Pellet:

"D'you Remember, In Frazer, The     Tribe That Buries The     Bride Up To The

Waist?"

He Spoke As Fast As Anybody! He Had Dark, Lively Little Eyes, Too, All

Crinkled Round Like A Catholic Priest's. Winifred Felt Suddenly He

Might Say Things She Would Regret.

"They're Always So Diverting--Weddings," She Murmured, And Moved On To

Soames. He Was Curiously Still, And Winifred Saw At Once What Was

Dictating His Immobility. To His Right Was George Forsyte, To His Left

Annette And Prosper Profond. He Could Not Move Without Either Seeing

Those Two Together, Or The     Reflection Of     Them In George Forsyte's

Japing Eyes. He Was Quite Right Not To Be Taking Notice.

"They Say Timothy's Sinking," He Said Glumly.

"Where Will You Put Him, Soames?"

"Highgate." And Counted On His Fingers. "It'll Make Twelve Of     Them

There, Including Wives. How Do You Think Fleur Looks?"

"Remarkably Well."

Soames Nodded. He Had Never Seen Her Look Prettier, Yet He Could Not

Rid Himself Of     The     Impression That This Business Was

Unnatural--Remembering Still That Crushed Figure Burrowing Into The

Corner Of     The     Sofa.

From That Night To This Day He Had Received From

Her No Confidences. He Knew From His Chauffeur That She Had Made One

More Attempt On Robin Hill And Drawn Blank--An Empty House, No One At

Home. He Knew That She Had Received A Letter, But Not What Was In It,

Except That It Had Made Her Hide Herself And Cry. He Had Remarked That

She Looked At Him Sometimes When She Thought He Wasn't Noticing, As If

She Were Wondering Still What He Had Done--Forsooth--To Make Those

People Hate Him So. Well, There It Was! Annette Had Come Back, And

Things Had Worn On Through The     Summer--Very Miserable, Till Suddenly

Fleur Had Said She Was Going To Marry Young Mont. She Had Shown Him A

Little More Affection When She Told Soames That. And He Had

Yielded--What Was The     Good Of     Opposing It? God Knew That He Had Never

Wished To Thwart Her In Anything! And The     Young Man Seemed Quite

Delirious About Her. No Doubt She Was In A Reckless Mood, And She Was

Young, Absurdly Young. But If He Opposed Her, He Didn't Know What She

Would Do; For All He Could Tell She Might Want To Take Up A Profession,

Become A Doctor Or Solicitor, Some Nonsense. She Had No Aptitude For

Painting, Writing, Music, In His View The     Legitimate Occupations Of

Unmarried Women, If They Must Do Something In These Days. On The     Whole,

She Was Safer Married, For He Could See Too Well How Feverish And

Restless She Was At Home. Annette, Too, Had Been In Favour Of

It--Annette, From Behind The     Veil Of     His Refusal To Know What She Was

About, If She Was About Anything. Annette Had Said: "Let Her Marry This

Young Man. He Is A Nice Boy--Not So Highty-Flighty As He Seems." Where

She Got Her Expressions, He Didn't Know--But Her Opinion Soothed His

Doubts. His Wife, Whatever Her Conduct, Had Clear Eyes And An Almost

Depressing Amount Of     Common Sense. He Had Settled Fifty Thousand On

Fleur, Taking Care