picture of
"the future town," to that boy's and Fleur's first meeting; to the bluish
trail of Prosper Profond's cigar, and Fleur in the window pointing down
to where the fellow prowled. To the sight of Irene and that dead fellow
sitting side by side in the stand at Lord's. To her and that boy at
Robin Hill. To the sofa, where Fleur lay crushed up in the corner; to
her lips pressed into his cheek, and her farewell "Daddy." And suddenly
he saw again Irene's grey-gloved hand waving its last gesture of release.

He sat there a long time dreaming his career, faithful to the scut of his
possessive instinct, warming himself even with its failures.

"To Let"--the Forsyte age and way of life, when a man owned his soul, his
investments, and his woman, without check or question. And now the State
had, or would have, his investments, his woman had herself, and God knew
who had his soul. "To Let"--that sane and simple creed!

The waters of change were foaming in, carrying the promise of new forms
only when their destructive flood should have passed its full. He sat
there, subconscious of them, but with his thoughts resolutely set on the
past--as a man might ride into a wild night with his face to the tail of
his galloping horse. Athwart the Victorian dykes the waters were rolling
on property, manners, and morals, on melody and the old forms of
art--waters bringing to his mouth a salt taste as of blood, lapping to
the foot of this Highgate Hill where Victorianism lay buried. And
sitting there, high up on its most individual spot, Soames--like a figure
of Investment--refused their restless sounds. Instinctively he would not
fight them--there was in him too much primeval wisdom, of Man the
possessive animal. They would quiet down when they had fulfilled their
tidal fever of dispossessing and destroying; when the creations and the
properties of others were sufficiently broken and defected--they would
lapse and ebb, and fresh forms would rise based on an instinct older than
the fever of change--the instinct of Home.

"Je m'en fiche," said Prosper Profond. Soames did not say "Je m'en
fiche"--it was French, and the fellow was a thorn in his side--but deep
down he knew that change was only the interval of death between two forms
of life, destruction necessary to make room for fresher property. What
though the board was up, and cosiness to let?--some one would come along
and take it again some day.

And only one thing really