On his way to Green Street it occurred to Soames that he ought to go
into Dumetrius' in Suffolk Street about the possibility of the Bolderby
Old Crome. Almost worth while to have fought the war to have the
Bolderby Old Crome, as it were, in flux! Old Bolderby had died, his son
and grandson had been killed--a cousin was coming into the estate, who
meant to sell it, some said because of the condition of England, others
said because he had asthma.
If Dumetrius once got hold of it the price would become prohibitive;
it was necessary for Soames to find out whether Dumetrius had got it,
before he tried to get it himself. He therefore confined himself to
discussing with Dumetrius whether Monticellis would come again now that
it was the fashion for a picture to be anything except a picture; and
the future of Johns, with a side-slip into Buxton Knights. It was only
when leaving that he added: "So they're not selling the Bolderby Old
Crome, after all?" In sheer pride of racial superiority, as he had
calculated would be the case, Dumetrius replied:
"Oh! I shall get it, Mr. Forsyte, sir!"
The flutter of his eyelid fortified Soames in a resolution to write
direct to the new Bolderby, suggesting that the only dignified way
of dealing with an Old Crome was to avoid dealers. He therefore said,
"Well, good-day!" and went, leaving Dumetrius the wiser.
At Green Street he found that Fleur was out and would be all the
evening; she was staying one more night in London. He cabbed on
dejectedly, and caught his train.
He reached his house about six o'clock. The air was heavy, midges
biting, thunder about. Taking his letters he went up to his
dressing-room to cleanse himself of London.
An uninteresting post. A receipt, a bill for purchases on behalf of
Fleur. A circular about an exhibition of etchings. A letter beginning:
"SIR,
"I feel it my duty..."
That would be an appeal or something unpleasant. He looked at once for
the signature. There was none! Incredulously he turned the page over and
examined each corner. Not being a public man, Soames had never yet
had an anonymous letter, and his first impulse was to tear it up, as a
dangerous thing; his second to read it, as a thing still more dangerous.
"SIR,
"I feel it my duty to inform you that having no interest in the
matter your lady is carrying on with a foreigner--"
Reaching that word Soames stopped mechanically and examined the
postmark. So far as he could pierce the impenetrable disguise in which
the Post Office had wrapped it, there was something with a "sea" at the
end and a "t" in it. Chelsea? No! Battersea? Perhaps! He read on.