dent now, and only have his
mother's opposition to encounter. He would come into a lot of money, no
doubt, and perhaps the house--the house built for Irene and
himself--the house whose architect had wrought his domestic ruin. His
daughter--mistress of that house! That would be poetic justice!
Soames uttered a little mirthless laugh. He had designed that house
to re-establish his failing union, meant it for the seat of his
descendants, if he could have induced Irene to give him one! Her son
and Fleur! Their children would be, in some sort, offspring of the union
between himself and her!

The theatricality in that thought was repulsive to his sober sense. And
yet--it would be the easiest and wealthiest way out of the impasse, now
that Jolyon was gone. The juncture of two Forsyte fortunes had a kind
of conservative charm. And she--Irene-would be linked to him once more.
Nonsense! Absurd! He put the notion from his head.

On arriving home he heard the click of billiard-balls, and through the
window saw young Mont sprawling over the table. Fleur, with her cue
akimbo, was watching with a smile. How pretty she looked! No wonder that
young fellow was out of his mind about her. A title--land! There was
little enough in land, these days; perhaps less in a title. The old
Forsytes had always had a kind of contempt for titles, rather remote and
artificial things--not worth the money they cost, and having to do with
the Court. They had all had that feeling in differing measure--Soames
remembered. Swithin, indeed, in his most expansive days had once
attended a Levee. He had come away saying he shouldn't go again--"all
that small fry." It was suspected that he had looked too big in
knee-breeches. Soames remembered how his own mother had wished to be
presented because of the fashionable nature of the performance, and how
his father had put his foot down with unwonted decision. What did she
want with that peacocking--wasting time and money; there was nothing in
it!

The instinct which had made and kept the English Commons the chief
power in the State, a feeling that their own world was good enough and
a little better than any other because it was their world, had kept the
old Forsytes singularly free of "flummery," as Nicholas had been wont
to call it when he had the gout. Soames' generation, more self-conscious
and ironical, had been saved by a sense of Swithin in knee-breeches.
While the third and the fourth generation, as it seemed