t that public Museum of Art which has given so much
employment to officials, and so little pleasure to those working classes
for whom it was designed).

The memory of that change, vivid and touching, like the breaking open of
a flower, or the first sun after long winter, the memory, too, of all
that came after, often intruded itself, unaccountably, inopportunely on
Lady Baynes, when her mind was set upon the most important things.

This was the very afternoon of the day that young Jolyon witnessed the
meeting in the Botanical Gardens, and on this day, too, old Jolyon paid a
visit to his solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard, and Forsyte, in the Poultry.
Soames was not in, he had gone down to Somerset House; Bustard was buried
up to the hilt in papers and that inaccessible apartment, where he was
judiciously placed, in order that he might do as much work as possible;
but James was in the front office, biting a finger, and lugubriously
turning over the pleadings in Forsyte v. Bosinney.

This sound lawyer had only a sort of luxurious dread of the 'nice point,'
enough to set up a pleasurable feeling of fuss; for his good practical
sense told him that if he himself were on the Bench he would not pay much
attention to it. But he was afraid that this Bosinney would go bankrupt
and Soames would have to find the money after all, and costs into the
bargain. And behind this tangible dread there was always that intangible
trouble, lurking in the background, intricate, dim, scandalous, like a
bad dream, and of which this action was but an outward and visible sign.

He raised his head as old Jolyon came in, and muttered: "How are you,
Jolyon? Haven't seen you for an age. You've been to Switzerland, they
tell me. This young Bosinney, he's got himself into a mess. I knew how
it would be!" He held out the papers, regarding his elder brother with
nervous gloom.

Old Jolyon read them in silence, and while he read them James looked at
the floor, biting his fingers the while.

Old Jolyon pitched them down at last, and they fell with a thump amongst
a mass of affidavits in 're Buncombe, deceased,' one of the many branches
of that parent and profitable tree, 'Fryer v. Forsyte.'

"I don't know what Soames is about," he said, "to make a fuss over a few
hundred pounds. I thought he was a man of property."

James' long upper lip twitched angrily; he could not bear his son to be
attacked in such a spot.

"It's not the money," he began, but