And, as Soames retired, he resumed his seat in the bay window.
Soames moved along Piccadilly deep in reflections excited by his
cousin's words. He himself had always been a worker and a saver, George
always a drone and a spender; and yet, if confiscation once began, it
was he--the worker and the saver--who would be looted! That was the
negation of all virtue, the overturning of all Forsyte principles. Could
civilization be built on any other? He did not think so. Well, they
wouldn't confiscate his pictures, for they wouldn't know their worth.
But what would they be worth, if these maniacs once began to milk
capital? A drug on the market. 'I don't care about myself,' he thought;
'I could live on five hundred a year, and never know the difference, at
my age.' But Fleur! This fortune, so widely invested, these treasures so
carefully chosen and amassed, were all for--her. And if it should
turn out that he couldn't give or leave them to her--well, life had
no meaning, and what was the use of going in to look at this crazy,
futuristic stuff with the view of seeing whether it had any future?
Arriving at the Gallery off Cork Street, however, he paid his shilling,
picked up a catalogue, and entered. Some ten persons were prowling
round. Soames took steps and came on what looked to him like a lamp-post
bent by collision with a motor omnibus. It was advanced some three
paces from the wall, and was described in his catalogue as "Jupiter." He
examined it with curiosity, having recently turned some of his attention
to sculpture. 'If that's Jupiter,' he thought, 'I wonder what Juno's
like.' And suddenly he saw her, opposite. She appeared to him like
nothing so much as a pump with two handles, lightly clad in snow. He
was still gazing at her, when two of the prowlers halted on his left.
"Epatant!" he heard one say.
"Jargon!" growled Soames to himself.
The other's boyish voice replied
"Missed it, old bean; he's pulling your leg. When Jove and Juno created
he them, he was saying: 'I'll see how much these fools will swallow.'
And they've lapped up the lot."
"You young duffer! Vospovitch is an innovator. Don't you see that he's
brought satire into sculpture? The future of plastic art, of music,
painting, and even architecture, has set in satiric. It was bound to.
People are tired--the bottom's tumbled out of sentiment."
"Well, I'm quite equal to taking a little interest in beauty. I was
through the War. You've dropped your handkerchief, sir."
Soames saw a handkerchief held out in front of him. He took it with
some natural suspicion, and approached it to his nose. It had the right
scent--of distant Eau de Cologne--and his initials in a corner. Slightly
reassured, he raised his eyes to the young man's face. It had rather
fawn-like ears, a laughing mouth, with half a toothbrush growing out
of it on each side, and small lively eyes, above a normally dressed
appearance.