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

Rang For Tea. Neither Of     Them Were In. And Again That Sense Of

Loneliness Came Over Him. These Hotels! What Monstrous Great Places

They Were Now! He Could Remember When There Was Nothing Bigger Than

Long's Or Brown's, Morley's Or The     Tavistock, And The     Heads That Were

Shaken Over The     Langham And The     Grand. Hotels And Clubs--Clubs And

Hotels; No End To Them Now! And Soames, Who Had Just Been Watching At

Lord's A Miracle Of     Tradition And Continuity, Fell Into Reverie Over

The Changes In That London Where He Had Been Born Five-And-Sixty Years

Before. Whether Consols Were Going Up Or Not, London Had Become A

Terrific Property. No Such Property In The     World, Unless It Were New

York! There Was A Lot Of     Hysteria In The     Papers Nowadays; But Any One

Who, Like Himself, Could Remember London Sixty Years Ago, And See It

Now, Realised The     Fecundity And Elasticity Of     Wealth. They Had Only To

Keep Their Heads, And Go At It Steadily. Why! He Remembered

Cobble-Stones, And Stinking Straw On The     Floor Of     Your Cab. And Old

Timothy--What Could He Not Tell Them, If He Had Kept His Memory! Things

Were Unsettled, People In A Funk Or In A Hurry, But Here Were London

And The     Thames, And Out There The     British Empire, And The     Ends Of     The

Earth. "Consols Are Goin' Up!" He Shouldn't Be A Bit Surprised. It Was

The Breed That Counted. And All That Was Bull-Dogged In Soames Stared

For A Moment Out Of     His Grey Eyes, Till Diverted By The     Print Of     A

Victorian Picture On The     Walls. The     Hotel Had Bought Three Dozen Of

That Little Lot! The     Old Hunting Or "Rake's Progress" Prints In The     Old

Inns Were Worth Looking At--But This Sentimental Stuff--Well,

Victorianism Had Gone! "Tell Them To Hold On!" Old Timothy Had Said.

But To What Were They To Hold On In This Modern Welter Of     The

"Democratic Principle"? Why, Even Privacy Was Threatened! And At The

Thought That Privacy Might Perish, Soames Pushed Back His Teacup And

Went To The     Window. Fancy Owning No More Of     Nature Than The     Crowd Out

There Owned Of     The     Flowers And Trees And Waters Of     Hyde Park! No, No!

Private Possession Underlay Everything Worth Having.

The     World Had

Slipped Its Sanity A Bit, As Dogs Now And Again At Full Moon Slipped

Theirs And Went Off For A Night's Rabbiting; But The     World, Like The

Dog, Knew Where Its Bread Was Buttered And Its Bed Warm, And Would Come

Back Sure Enough To The     Only Home Worth Having--To Private Ownership.

The World Was In Its Second Childhood For The     Moment, Like Old

Timothy--Eating Its Titbit First!

He Heard A Sound Behind Him, And Saw That His Wife And Daughter Had

Come In.

"So You're Back!" He Said.

Fleur Did Not Answer; She Stood For A Moment Looking At Him And Her

Mother, Then Passed Into Her Bedroom. Annette Poured Herself Out A Cup

Of Tea.

"I Am Going To Paris, To My Mother, Soames."

"Oh! To Your Mother?"

"Yes."

"For How Long?"

"I Do Not Know."

"And When Are You Going?"

 "On Monday."

Was She Really Going To Her Mother? Odd, How Indifferent He Felt! Odd,

How Clearly She Had Perceived The     Indifference He Would Feel So Long As

There Was No Scandal. And Suddenly Between Her And Himself He Saw

Distinctly The     Face He Had Seen That Afternoon--Irene's.

"Will You Want Money?"

"Thank You; I Have Enough."

"Very Well. Let Us Know When You Are Coming Back."

Annette Put Down The     Cake She Was Fingering, And, Looking Up Through

Darkened Lashes, Said:

"Shall I Give Maman Any Message?"

"My Regards."

Annette Stretched Herself, Her Hands On Her Waist, And Said In French:

"What Luck That You Have Never Loved Me, Soames!" Then Rising, She Too

Left The     Room. Soames Was Glad She Had Spoken It In French--It Seemed

To Require No Dealing With. Again That Other Face--Pale, Dark-Eyed,

Beautiful Still! And There Stirred Far Down Within Him The     Ghost Of

Warmth, As From Sparks Lingering Beneath A Mound Of     Flaky Ash. And

Fleur Infatuated With Her Boy! Queer Chance! Yet, Was There Such A

Thing As Chance? A Man Went Down A Street, A Brick Fell On His Head.

Ah! That Was Chance, No Doubt. But This! "Inherited," His Girl Had

Said. She--She Was "Holding On!"

Twofold Impulse Had Made Jolyon Say To His Wife At Breakfast: "Let's Go

Up To Lord's!"

"Wanted"--Something To Abate The     Anxiety In Which Those Two Had Lived

During The     Sixty Hours Since Jon Had Brought Fleur Down. "Wanted"--Too,

That Which Might Assuage The     Pangs Of     Memory In One Who Knew He Might

Lose Them Any Day!

Fifty-Eight Years Ago Jolyon Had Become An Eton Boy, For Old Jolyon's

Whim Had Been That He Should Be Canonised At The     Greatest Possible

Expense. Year After Year He Had Gone To Lord's From Stanhope Gate With

A Father Whose Youth In The     Eighteen-Twenties Had Been Passed Without

Polish In The     Game Of     Cricket. Old Jolyon Would Speak Quite Openly Of

Swipes, Full Tosses, Half And Three-Quarter Balls; And Young Jolyon

With The     Guileless Snobbery Of     Youth Had Trembled Lest His Sire Should

Be Overheard. Only In This Supreme Matter Of     Cricket He Had Been

Nervous, For His Father--In Crimean Whiskers Then--Had Ever Impressed

Him As The     Beau Ideal. Though Never Canonised Himself, Old Jolyon's

Natural Fastidiousness And Balance Had Saved Him From The     Errors Of     The

Vulgar. How Delicious, After Howling In A Top Hat And A Sweltering

Heat, To Go Home With His Father In A Hansom Cab, Bathe, Dress, And

Forth To The     "Disunion" Club, To Dine Off Whitebait, Cutlets, And A

Tart, And Go--Two "Swells," Old And Young, In Lavender Kid Gloves--To

The Opera Or Play. And On Sunday, When The     Match Was Over, And His Top

Hat Duly Broken, Down With His Father In A Special Hansom To The     "Crown

And Sceptre," And The     Terrace Above The     River--The Golden Sixties When

The World Was Simple, Dandies Glamorous, Democracy Not Born, And The

Books Of     Whyte Melville Coming Thick And Fast.

A Generation Later, With His Own Boy, Jolly, Harrow--Buttonholed With

Cornflowers--By Old Jolyon's Whim His Grandson Had Been Canonised At A

Trifle Less Expense--Again Jolyon Had Experienced The     Heat And

Counter-Passions Of     The     Day, And Come Back To The     Cool And The

Strawberry Beds Of     Robin Hill, And Billiards After Dinner, His Boy

Making The     Most Heart-Breaking Flukes And Trying To Seem Languid And

Grown-Up. Those Two Days Each Year He And His Son Had Been Alone

Together In The     World, One On Each Side--And Democracy Just Born!

 And So, He Had Unearthed A Grey Top Hat, Borrowed A Tiny Bit Of

Light-Blue Ribbon From Irene, And Gingerly, Keeping Cool, By Car And

Train And Taxi, Had Reached Lord's Ground. There, Beside Her In A

Lawn-Coloured Frock With Narrow Black Edges, He Had Watched The     Game,

And Felt The     Old Thrill Stir Within Him.

When Soames Passed, The     Day Was Spoiled, And Irene's Face Distorted By

Compression Of     The     Lips. No Good To Go On Sitting Here With Soames Or

Perhaps His Daughter Recurring In Front Of     Them, Like Decimals. And He

Said:

"Well, Dear, If You've Had Enough--Let's Go!"

That Evening Jolyon Felt Exhausted. Not Wanting Her To See Him Thus, He

Waited Till She Had Begun To Play, And Stole Off To The     Little Study.

He Opened The     Long Window For Air, And The     Door, That He Might Still

Hear Her Music Drifting In; And, Settled In His Father's Old Armchair,

Closed His Eyes, With His Head Against The     Worn Brown Leather. Like

That Passage Of     The     Cesar Franck Sonata--So Had Been His Life With Her,

A Divine Third Movement. And Now This Business Of     Jon's--This Bad

Business! Drifted To The     Edge Of     Consciousness, He Hardly Knew If It

Were In Sleep That He Smelled The     Scent Of     A Cigar, And Seemed To See A

Shape In The     Blackness Before His Closed Eyes.

That Shape Formed, Went,

And Formed Again; As If In The     Very Chair Where He Himself Was Sitting,

He Saw His Father, Black-Coated, With Knees Crossed, Glasses Balanced

Between Thumb And Finger; Saw The     Big White Moustaches, And The     Deep

Eyes Looking Up Below A Dome Of     Forehead, Seeming To Search His Own;

Seeming To Speak. "Are You Facing It, Jo? It's For You To Decide. She's

Only A Woman!" How Well He Knew His Father In That Phrase; How All The

Victorian Age Came Up With It!--And His Answer "No, I've Funked

It--Funked Hurting Her And Jon And Myself. I've Got A Heart; I've

Funked It." But The     Old Eyes, So Much Older, So Much Younger Than His

Own, Kept At It: "It's Your Wife, Your Son, Your Past. Tackle It, My

Boy!" Was It A Message From Walking Spirit; Or But The     Instinct Of