is not rubbish at all--far from it.

And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth of art
at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes--Aunt Hester, for instance,
who had always been musical--could not help regretting that Francie's
music was not 'classical'; the same with her poems. But then, as Aunt
Hester said, they didn't see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were
'little light things.'

There was nobody who could write a poem like 'Paradise Lost,' or
'Childe Harold'; either of which made you feel that you really had read
something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have something to occupy
her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it!

And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen to the
latest story of how Francie had got her price increased.

They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not to, for
these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he never could catch
what they said.

"And I can't think," said Mrs. Septimus, "how you do it. I should never
have the audacity!"

Francie smiled lightly. "I'd much rather deal with a man than a woman.
Women are so sharp!"

"My dear," cried Mrs. Small, "I'm sure we're not."

Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the squeak,
said, as though being strangled: "Oh, you'll kill me some day, auntie."

Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing when he
himself perceived no joke. Indeed, he detested Euphemia altogether, to
whom he always alluded as 'Nick's daughter, what's she called--the pale
one?' He had just missed being her god-father--indeed, would have been,
had he not taken a firm stand against her outlandish name. He hated
becoming a godfather. Swithin then said to Francie with dignity: "It's
a fine day--er--for the time of year." But Euphemia, who knew perfectly
well that he had refused to be her godfather, turned to Aunt Hester, and
began telling her how she had seen Irene--Mrs. Soames--at the Church and
Commercial Stores.

"And Soames was with her?" said Aunt Hester, to whom Mrs. Small had as
yet had no opportunity of relating the incident.

"Soames with her? Of course not!"

"But was she all alone in London?"

"Oh, no; there was Mr. Bosinney with her. She was perfectly dressed."

But Swithin, hearing the name Irene, looked severely at Euphemia, who,
it is true, never did look well in a dress, whatever she may have done
on other oc