Swithin fixed her with his stare. Upset already by her occupation of his chair, he was on the point of saying: ‘Your father’s worth twenty of you,’ but, remembering in time the exigencies of deportment, he murmured more gallantly: “Where have you sprung from?”

“My bicycle.”

“What!” said Swithin. “You ride one of those things!”

Again Euphemia squeaked.

“Oh! Uncle! One of those things!”

“Well,” said Swithin, “what else are they—invention of the devil. Have some tea?”

“Thank you, Uncle, but you must be tired after your drive.”

“Tired! Why should I be tired? Waiter! Bring some tea over there—to my chair.”

Having thus conveyed to her the faux fas she had committed by sitting in his chair, he motioned her towards it and followed.

On reaching the chair there was an ominous moment.

“Sit down,” said Swithin.

For a moment Euphemia hovered on its edge, then with a slight squeak said: “But it’s your chair, Uncle.”

“Alphonse,” said Swithin, “bring another.”

When the other chair had been brought, the cushions placed for Swithin in his own, and they were seated, Euphemia said:

“Didn’t you know that women were beginning to ride bicycles, Uncle?”

The hairs on Swithin’s underlip stood out.

“Women,” he said. “You may well say women. Fancy a lady riding a thing like that!”

Euphemia squeaked more notably.

“But, Uncle, why LIKE THAT?”

“With a leg on each side, disturbing the traffic,” and glancing at Euphemia’s skirt, he added: “Showing their legs.”

Euphemia gave way to silent laughter.

“Oh! Uncle,” she said, at last, in a strangled voice, “you’ll kill me!”

But at this moment came tea.

“Help yourself,” said Swithin, shortly; “I don’t drink it.” And, taking from the waiter a light for his cigar, he sat staring with pale eyes at his niece. Not till after her second cup did she break that silence.

“Uncle Swithin, do tell me why they called you ‘Four-in-Hand Forsyte,’ I’ve always wanted to know.”

Swithin’s stare grew rounder.

“Why shouldn’t they?”

“‘Four-in-hand’; but you never drove more than a pair, did you?”

Swithin preened his neck. “Certainly not! It was just a compliment to my—er—style.”

“Style!” repeated Euphemia. “Oh, Uncle!” and she grew so crimson that he thought she had swallowed a crumb.

Then slowly but surely it dawned on him that he was the cause of her emotion. Into his cheeks a faint pink crept; something moved in his throat, something that might choke him if he were not careful. He did not stir.

Euphemia rose.

“I MUST be going, Uncle. I HAVE enjoyed seeing you, you’re looking so well. Don’t get up, please, and thank you ever so for the tea.” She bent above him, pecked at his forehead, and showing her legs, walked towards the door. Her face was still very red and as she went, Swithin seemed to hear her squeak.

He stayed unmoving for a second, then struggled to get up. He had no stick to help him, no time to give to the process, and he struggled. He got on his feet, stood a moment to recover, and then, without his cane, walked, he knew not how, to the window of the hall that looked out on to the parade. There she was—that niece of his, that squeaker, mounting her bicycle, moving it, mounting it, riding it away. Into the traffic she went, pedalling, showing her ankles; not an ounce of grace, of elegance, of anything! There she went! And Swithin stood, drumming a puffy forefinger against the pane, as if denouncing what he saw. Style! Style! She—she had been laughing at him. Not a doubt of it! If he HAD only driven a pair, it had been the finest in the kingdom! He stood with that distressing pink still staining the pallor of his cheeks—ruffled to the bottom of his soul. Was he conscious of the full sting in his niece’s laughter? Conscious of how the soubriquet ‘Four-in-hand Forsyte’ epitomised the feeling Society had ever held of him; the feeling that with his craving for distinction he had puffed himself out into the double of what he really was? Was he conscious of that grievous sneer? Only, perhaps, subconscious, but it was enough; a crabbed wrath possessed him to the soles of the patent leather boots still worn, in public, on his painful feet. So she rode one of ‘those things,’ and laughed at him, did she? He would show her. He left the window and went to the writing table. And there, his eyes round and yellow, his hand trembling, he took paper and began to write. In a shaky travesty of what had once been almost copperplate, he traced these lines:

“This is a codicil to the last Will of me Swithin Forsyte. To mark my disapproval of the manners and habits of my niece Euphemia, the daughter of my brother Nicholas Forsyte and Elizabeth his wife, I hereby revoke the bequest of the share of my property left to her in my said Will. I leave her nothing whatever.”

He paused and read it through. That would teach her! Faithful to the ladies, the half of his property he had left to his three sisters in equal shares; the other half to his eight nieces in equal shares. Well, there would only be seven now! And he sounded the bell.

“Boy, fetch my valet and tell the hall porter to come here.”

When they arrived he was adding the words: “Signed in the presence of—”

“Here!” he said. “This is a codicil to my Will. I want you to witness it. Write your names and occupations here.”

When they had done so, and he had blotted the whole, he addressed an envelope, wrote:

and sealed the envelope with the ‘pheasant proper’ obtained from the College of Arms in 1850 at some expense.

“Take that,” he said to Alphonse, “and post it. Here, help me back to my chair.”

When he was settled in again, and Alphonse had gone, his eyes roved restlessly.

Style! His old cronies—all gone! No one came in here now who had known him in the palmy days of style! Days when there was elegance. Bicycles, forsooth! Well, that young lady had had an expensive ride, an expensive laugh. Cost her a matter of six or seven thousand pounds. They laughed best who laughed last! And with the feeling that he had struck a blow for elegance, for manners, for—for style, Swithin regained his pallor, his eyes grew less yellow, his eyelids rounder over them, and the expression in those eyes became almost wistful. This damned East wind—if he didn’t take care he’d have no appetite for dinner.

Four-in-hand Forsyte! Why not—why not? He could have driven four-in-hand if he’d liked, any day. Four-in-ha—! His chin dropped slightly. Four-in-! His eyes closed; his lips puffed; he slept, his hand still resting on his cane.

Into the hall strolled two young men on a week-end from town. Hatted, high-collared, with their canes swinging, they passed not far from Swithin’s chair.

“Look at that old buck,” said one in a low voice. And they halted, staring at him sideways.

“Hallo! It’s old Uncle Swithin, Giles.”

“By George! So it is. I say, Jesse, look at his rings, and his pin, and the shine on his hair and his boots. Fancy the old josser keeping it up like that!”

“By Jove! Hope I’LL never be old. Come on Giles!”

“Stout old boy!”

And ‘the Dromios,’ as they were called, swung on, their lean hungry faces bravely held above their collars.

But the old pale lips of Swithin, between the little white moustaches and the little white tuft, puffed and filled, puffed and filled. He had not heard.