these days."

"And carry five," said Gradman to himself. "I forgot--Mr. Timothy's in
Consols; we shan't get more than two per cent with this income tax. To
be on the safe side, say seven million. Still, that's a pretty penny."

Soames rose and handed him the Will. "You're going into the City. Take
care of that, and do what's necessary. Advertise; but there are no
debts. When's the sale?"

"Tuesday week," said Gradman. "Life or lives in bein' and twenty-one
years afterwards--it's a long way off. But I'm glad he's left it in the
family." ...

The sale--not at Jobson's, in view of the Victorian nature of the
effects--was far more freely attended than the funeral, though not by
Cook and Smither, for Soames had taken it on himself to give them their
hearts' desires. Winifred was present, Euphemia, and Francie, and
Eustace had come in his car. The miniatures, Barbizons, and J. R.
drawings had been bought in by Soames; and relics of no marketable
value were set aside in an off-room for members of the family who cared
to have mementos. These were the only restrictions upon bidding
characterised by an almost tragic langour. Not one piece of furniture,
no picture or porcelain figure appealed to modern taste. The
humming-birds had fallen like autumn leaves when taken from where they
had not hummed for sixty years. It was painful to Soames to see the
chairs his aunts had sat on, the little grand piano they had
practically never played, the books whose outsides they had gazed at,
the china they had dusted, the curtains they had drawn, the hearth-rug
which had warmed their feet; above all, the beds they had lain and died
in--sold to little dealers, and the housewives of Fulham. And yet--what
could one do? Buy them and stick them in a lumber-room? No; they had to
go the way of all flesh and furniture, and be worn out. But when they
put up Aunt Ann's sofa and were going to knock it down for thirty
shillings, he cried out, suddenly: "Five pounds!" The sensation was
considerable, and the sofa his.

When that little sale was over in the fusty saleroom, and those
Victorian ashes scattered, he went out into the misty October sunshine
feeling as if cosiness had died out of the world, and the board "To
Let" was up, indeed. Revolutions on the horizon; Fleur in Spain; no
comfort in Annette; no Timothy's on the Bayswater Road. In the
irritable desolation of his soul he went into the Goupenor Gallery.
That chap Jolyon's water-colours were