something out of everything you do, which is
the chief characteristic of Forsytes, and indeed of the saner elements in
every nation. In this practice of taking family matters to Timothy's in
the Bayswater Road, Soames was but following in the footsteps of his
father, who had been in the habit of going at least once a week to see
his sisters at Timothy's, and had only given it up when he lost his nerve
at eighty-six, and could not go out without Emily. To go with Emily was
of no use, for who could really talk to anyone in the presence of his own
wife? Like James in the old days, Soames found time to go there nearly
every Sunday, and sit in the little drawing-room into which, with his
undoubted taste, he had introduced a good deal of change and china not
quite up to his own fastidious mark, and at least two rather doubtful
Barbizon pictures, at Christmastides. He himself, who had done extremely
well with the Barbizons, had for some years past moved towards the
Marises, Israels, and Mauve, and was hoping to do better. In the
riverside house which he now inhabited near Mapledurham he had a gallery,
beautifully hung and lighted, to which few London dealers were strangers.
It served, too, as a Sunday afternoon attraction in those week-end
parties which his sisters, Winifred or Rachel, occasionally organised for
him. For though he was but a taciturn showman, his quiet collected
determinism seldom failed to influence his guests, who knew that his
reputation was grounded not on mere aesthetic fancy, but on his power of
gauging the future of market values. When he went to Timothy's he almost
always had some little tale of triumph over a dealer to unfold, and
dearly he loved that coo of pride with which his aunts would greet it.
This afternoon, however, he was differently animated, coming from Roger's
funeral in his neat dark clothes--not quite black, for after all an uncle
was but an uncle, and his soul abhorred excessive display of feeling.
Leaning back in a marqueterie chair and gazing down his uplifted nose at
the sky-blue walls plastered with gold frames, he was noticeably silent.
Whether because he had been to a funeral or not, the peculiar Forsyte
build of his face was seen to the best advantage this afternoon--a face
concave and long, with a jaw which divested of flesh would have seemed
extravagant: altogether a chinny face though not at all ill-looking. He
was feeling more strongly than ever that Timothy's was hopele