I get nothing out of him but bills."

There was little sentimentality about the Forsytes. In that great
London, which they had conquered and become merged in, what time had they
to be sentimental?

A moment passed, and young Jolyon, turning on his heel, marched out at
the door. He could hardly see; his smile quavered. Never in all the
fifteen years since he had first found out that life was no simple
business, had he found it so singularly complicated.

As in all self-respecting families, an emporium had been established
where family secrets were bartered, and family stock priced. It was
known on Forsyte 'Change that Irene regretted her marriage. Her regret
was disapproved of. She ought to have known her own mind; no dependable
woman made these mistakes.

Out of his other property, out of all the things he had collected, his
silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, he got a secret and
intimate feeling; out of her he got none.

Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and Mrs. Soames
reached, James was the most affected. He had long forgotten how he had
hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of chestnut hue, round Emily,
in the days of his own courtship. He had long forgotten the small house
in the purlieus of Mayfair, where he had spent the early days of his
married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early days, not the
small house,--a Forsyte never forgot a house--he had afterwards sold it
at a clear profit of four hundred pounds.

And those countless Forsytes, who, in the course of innumerable
transactions concerned with property of all sorts (from wives to
water rights)....

"I now move, 'That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be received
and adopted.' You second that? Those in favour signify the same in the
usual way. Contrary--no. Carried. The next business, gentlemen...."
Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!

Forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating down his
guard; impending events over which he had no control threw their shadows
on his head. The irritation of one accustomed to have his way was,
roused against he knew not what.

"We are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and I admit that
it's a question of degree, but what I call a 'Forsyte' is a man who is
decidedly more than less a slave of property. He knows a good thing, he
knows a safe thing, and his grip on property--it doesn't matter whethe