small mouth, an
oval face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, one of those young men
who without effort establish moral ascendancy over their companions. He
had missed being expelled from school a year before Val, had spent that
year at Oxford, and Val could almost see a halo round his head. His name
was Crum, and no one could get through money quicker. It seemed to
be his only aim in life--dazzling to young Val, in whom, however, the
Forsyte would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the value for
that money was.

They dined quietly, in style and taste; left the Club smoking cigars,
with just two bottles inside them, and dropped into stalls at the
Liberty. For Val the sound of comic songs, the sight of lovely legs
were fogged and interrupted by haunting fears that he would never equal
Crum's quiet dandyism. His idealism was roused; and when that is so, one
is never quite at ease. Surely he had too wide a mouth, not the best cut
of waistcoat, no braid on his trousers, and his lavender gloves had no
thin black stitchings down the back. Besides, he laughed too much--Crum
never laughed, he only smiled, with his regular dark brows raised a
little so that they formed a gable over his just drooped lids. No! he
would never be Crum's equal. All the same it was a jolly good show,
and Cynthia Dark simply ripping. Between the acts Crum regaled him with
particulars of Cynthia's private life, and the awful knowledge became
Val's that, if he liked, Crum could go behind. He simply longed to say:
"I say, take me!" but dared not, because of his deficiencies; and this
made the last act or two almost miserable. On coming out Crum said:
"It's half an hour before they close; let's go on to the Pandemonium."
They took a hansom to travel the hundred yards, and seats costing
seven-and-six apiece because they were going to stand, and walked into
the Promenade. It was in these little things, this utter negligence of
money that Crum had such engaging polish. The ballet was on its last
legs and night, and the traffic of the Promenade was suffering for the
moment. Men and women were crowded in three rows against the barrier.
The whirl and dazzle on the stage, the half dark, the mingled tobacco
fumes and women's scent, all that curious lure to promiscuity which
belongs to Promenades, began to free young Val from his idealism. He
looked admiringly in a young woman's face, saw she was not young, and
quickly looked away. Shades of Cynthia Da