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

Turn Out Well. Could It Turn Out Well? She Had Not Got Over That Other

Boy--He Knew. They Were To Go To Spain For The     Honeymoon. He Would Be

Even Lonelier When She Was Gone. But Later, Perhaps, She Would Forget,

And Turn To Him Again!

Winifred's Voice Broke On His Reverie.

"Why! Of     All Wonders--June!"

There, In A Djibbah--What Things She Wore!--With Her Hair Straying From

Under A Fillet, Soames Saw His Cousin, And Fleur Going Forward To Greet

Her. The     Two Passed From Their View Out On To The     Stairway.

"Really," Said Winifred, "She Does The     Most Impossible Things! Fancy

Her Coming!"

"What Made You Ask Her?" Muttered Soames.

"Because I Thought She Wouldn't Accept, Of     Course."

 Winifred Had Forgotten That Behind Conduct Lies The     Main Trend Of

Character; Or, In Other Words, Omitted To Remember That Fleur Was Now A

"Lame Duck."

On Receiving Her Invitation, June Had First Thought: 'I Wouldn't Go

Near Them For The     World!' And Then, One Morning, Had Awakened From A

Dream Of     Fleur Waving To Her From A Boat With A Wild Unhappy Gesture.

And She Had Changed Her Mind.

When Fleur Came Forward And Said To Her:

 "Do Come Up While I'm Changing My Dress"; She Had Followed Up The

Stairs. The     Girl Led The     Way Into Imogen's Old Bedroom, Set Ready For

Her Toilet.

June Sat Down On The     Bed, Thin And Upright, Like A Little Spirit In The

Sere And Yellow. Fleur Locked The     Door.

The Girl Stood Before Her Divested Of     Her Wedding-Dress. What A Pretty

Thing She Was!

"I Suppose You Think Me A Fool," She Said, With Quivering Lips, "When

It Was To Have Been Jon. But What Does It Matter? Michael Wants Me, And

I Don't Care. It'll Get Me Away From Home." Diving Her Hand Into The

Frills On Her Breast, She Brought Out A Letter. "Jon Wrote Me This."

June Read: "Lake Okanagen, British Columbia.

I'm Not Coming Back To

England. Bless You Always. Jon."

"She's Made Safe, You See," Said Fleur.

June Handed Back The     Letter.

"That's Not Fair To Irene; She Always Told Jon He Could Do As He

Wished."

Fleur Smiled Bitterly. "Didn't She Spoil Your Life Too?"

"Nobody Can Spoil A Life, My Dear. That's Nonsense. Things Happen, But

We Bob Up."

Then With A Sort Of     Terror She Saw The     Girl Sink On Her Knees And Bury

Her Face In The     Djibbah, With A Strangled Sob.

"It's All Right--All Right," June Murmured: "Don't! There, There!"

But The     Point Of     The     Girl's Chin Was Pressed Ever Closer Into Her

Thigh, And The     Sound Was Dreadful Of     Her Sobbing. Well, Well! It Had To

Come. She Would Feel Better Afterwards! June Stroked The     Short Hair Of

That Shapely Head And All The     Scattered Mother-Sense In Her Focussed

Itself And Passed Through The     Tips Of     Her Fingers Into The     Girl's Brain.

"Don't Sit Down Under It, My Dear," She Said At Last. "We Can't Control

Life, But We Can Fight It. Make The     Best Of     Things.

I've Had To. I Held

On, Like You; And I Cried, As You're Crying Now. And Look At Me!"

Fleur Raised Her Head; A Sob Merged Suddenly Into A Little Choked

Laugh. In Truth It Was A Thin And Rather Wild And Wasted Spirit She Was

Looking At, But It Had Brave Eyes.

"All Right!" She Said. "I'm Sorry. I Shall Forget Him, I Suppose, If I

Fly Fast And Far Enough."

And, Scrambling To Her Feet, She Went Over To The     Washstand.

June Watched Her Removing With Cold Water The     Traces Of     Emotion. Save

For A Little Becoming Pinkness There Was Nothing Left When She Stood

Before The     Mirror. June Got Off The     Bed And Took A Pin-Cushion In Her

Hand. To Put Two Pins Into The     Wrong Places Was All The     Vent She Found

For Sympathy.

"Give Me A Kiss," She Said When Fleur Was Ready, And Dug Her Chin Into

The Girl's Warm Cheek.

"I Want A Whiff," Said Fleur; "Don't Wait."

June Left Her, Sitting On The     Bed With A Cigarette Between Her Lips And

Her Eyes Half Closed, And Went Down-Stairs. In The     Doorway Of     The

Drawing-Room Stood Soames As If Unquiet At His Daughter's Tardiness.

June Tossed Her Head And Passed Down On To The     Half Landing. Her Cousin

Francie Was Standing There.

"Look!" Said June, Pointing With Her Chin At Soames. "That Man's Fatal!"

"How Do You Mean," Said Francie, "Fatal?"

June Did Not Answer Her. "I Shan't Wait To See Them Off," She Said.

"Good-Bye!"

 "Good-Bye!" And Francie's Eyes, Of     A Celtic Grey, Goggled. That Old

Feud! Really, It Was Quite Romantic!

Soames, Moving To The     Well Of     The     Staircase, Saw June Go, And Drew A

Breath Of     Satisfaction. But Why Didn't Fleur Come? They Would Miss

Their Train. That Train Would Bear Her Away From Him, Yet He Could Not

Help Fidgeting At The     Thought That They Would Lose It. And Then She Did

Come, Running Down In Her Tan-Coloured Frock And Black Velvet Cap, And

Passed Him Into The     Drawing-Room. He Saw Her Kiss Her Mother, Her Aunt,

Val's Wife, Imogen, And Then Come Forth, Quick And Pretty As Ever. How

Would She Treat Him At This Last Moment Of     Her Girlhood? He Couldn't

Hope For Much!

Her Lips Pressed The     Middle Of     His Cheek.

"Daddy!" She Said, And Was Past And Gone. Daddy! She Hadn't Called Him

That For Years. He Drew A Long Breath And Followed Slowly Down. There

Was All The     Folly With That Confetti Stuff And The     Rest Of     It To Go

Through With, Yet. But He Would Like Just To Catch Her Smile, If She

Leaned Out, Though They Would Hit Her In The     Eye With The     Shoe, If They

Didn't Take Care. Young Mont's Voice Said Fervently In His Ear:

"Good-Bye, Sir; And Thank You! I'm So Fearfully Bucked."

"Good-Bye," He Said; "Don't Miss Your Train."

He Stood On The     Bottom Step But Three, Whence He Could See Above The

Heads--The Silly Hats And Heads. They Were In The     Car Now; And There

Was That Stuff, Showering, And There Went The     Shoe.

A Flood Of

Something Welled Up In Soames, And--He Didn't Know--He Couldn't See!

When They Came To Prepare That Terrific Symbol Timothy Forsyte--The One

Pure Individualist Left, The     Only Man Who Hadn't Heard Of     The     Great

War--They Found Him Wonderful--Not Even Death Had Undermined His

Soundness.

To Smither And Cook That Preparation Came Like Final Evidence Of     What

They Had Never Believed Possible--The End Of     The     Old Forsyte Family On

Earth. Poor Mr. Timothy Must Now Take A Harp And Sing In The     Company Of

Miss Forsyte, Mrs. Julia, Miss Hester; With Mr. Jolyon, Mr. Swithin,

Mr. James, Mr. Roger, And Mr. Nicholas Of     The     Party. Whether Mrs.

Hayman Would Be There Was More Doubtful, Seeing That She Had Been

Cremated. Secretly Cook Thought That Mr. Timothy Would Be Upset--He Had

Always Been So Set Against Barrel Organs. How Many Times Had She Not

Said: "Drat The     Thing! There It Is Again! Smither, You'd Better Run Up

And See What You Can Do." And In Her Heart She Would So Have Enjoyed

The Tunes, If She Hadn't Known That Mr. Timothy Would Ring The     Bell In

A Minute And Say: "Here, Take Him A Halfpenny And Tell Him To Move On."

Often They Had Been Obliged To Add Threepence Of     Their Own Before The

Man Would Go--Timothy Had Ever Underrated The     Value Of     Emotion. Luckily

He Had Taken The     Organs For Blue-Bottles In His Last Years, Which Had

Been A Comfort, And They Had Been Able To Enjoy The     Tunes. But A Harp!

Cook Wondered. It Was A Change! And Mr. Timothy Had Never Liked Change.

But She Did Not Speak Of     This To Smither, Who Did So Take A Line Of     Her

Own In Regard To Heaven That It Quite Put One About Sometimes.