“Oh, God!” he gasped, and ran upstairs.

Annette met him at the door. He was conscious of her speaking in French, of being called “mon cher,” of the words “vers trois heures… The doctor says one must not worry—all goes for the best.” Again that moan, and the door shut in his face; she was gone. Michael remained standing on the rug with perfectly cold sweat oozing from him, and his nails dug deep into his palms.

‘This is how one becomes a father!’ he thought: ‘This is how I became a son!’ That moaning! He could not bear to stay there, and he could not bear to go away. It might be hours, yet! He kept repeating to himself: “One must not worry—must not worry!” How easily said! How meaningless! His brain, his heart, ranging for relief, lighted on the strangest relief which could possibly have come to him. Suppose this child being born, had not been his—had been—been Wilfrid’s; how would he have been feeling, here, outside this door? It might—it might so easily have been—since nothing was sacred, now! Nothing except—yes, just that which was dearer than oneself—just that which was in there, moaning. He could not bear it on the rug, and went downstairs. Across and across the copper floor, a cigar in his mouth, he strode in vague, rebellious agony. Why should birth be like this? And the answer was: It isn’t—not in China! To have the creed that nothing mattered—and then run into it like this! Something born at such a cost, must matter, should matter. One must see to that! Speculation ceased in Michael’s brain; he stood, listening terribly. Nothing! He could not bear it down there, and went up again. No sound at first, and then another moan! This time he fled into his study, and ranged round the room, looking at the cartoons of Aubrey Greene. He did not see a single one, and suddenly bethought him of ‘Old Forsyte.’ He ought to be told!

He rang up the ‘Connoisseurs,’ the ‘Remove,’ and his own father’s clubs, in case they might have gone there together after the meeting. He drew blank everywhere. It was half-past seven. How much longer was this going on? He went back to the bedroom door; could hear nothing. Then down again to the hall. Ting-a-ling was lying by the front door, now. ‘Fed-up!’ thought Michael, stroking his back, and mechanically clearing the letter-box. Just one letter—Wilfrid’s writing! He took it to the foot of the stairs and read it with half his brain, the other half wondering—wandering up there.

Half Michael’s brain thought: ‘Well, that’s that! And the book coming out today!’ Queer! Was Wilfrid right—was it all a blooming gaff—the inky stream? Was one just helping on England’s sickness? Ought they all to get on camels and ride the sun down? And yet, in books were comfort and diversion; and they were wanted! England had to go on—go on! ‘No retreat, no retreat, they must conquer or die who have no retreat!’… God! There it was again! Back he flew upstairs, with his ears covered and his eyes wild. The sounds ceased; Annette came out to him.

“Her father, mon cher; try to find her father!”

“I have—I can’t!” gasped Michael.

“Try Green Street—Mrs. Dartie. Courage! All is normal—it will be quite sewn, now.”

When he had rung up Green Street and been answered at last, he sat with the door of his study open, waiting for ‘Old Forsyte’ to come. Half his sight remarked a round hole burnt in his trouser leg—he hadn’t even noticed the smell; hadn’t even realised that he had been smoking. He must pull himself together for the ‘old man.’ He heard the bell ring, and ran down to open.

“Well?” said Soames.

“Not yet, sir. Come up to my study. It’s nearer.”

They went up side by side. That trim grey head, with the deep furrow between the eyes, and those eyes staring as if at pain behind them, steadied Michael. Poor old chap! He was ‘for it,’ too! They were both on ‘their uppers!’

“Have a peg, sir? I’ve got brandy here.”

“Yes,” said Soames. “Anything.”

With the brandies in their hands, half-raised, they listened—jerked their hands up, drank. They were automatic, like two doll figures worked by the same string.

“Cigarette, sir?” said Michael.

Soames nodded.

With the lighted cigarettes just not in their mouths, they listened, put them in, took them out, puffed smoke. Michael had his right arm tight across his chest. Soames his left. They formed a pattern, thus, side by side.

“Bad to stick, sir. Sorry!”

Soames nodded. His teeth were clenched. Suddenly his hand relaxed.

“Listen!” he said. Sounds—different—confused!

Michael’s hand seized something, gripped it hard; it was cold, thin—the hand of Soames. They sat thus, hand in hand, staring at the doorway, for how long neither knew.

Suddenly that doorway darkened; a figure in grey stood there—Annette!

“It is all r-right! A son!”

Chapter XV.

CALM

On waking from deep sleep next morning, Michael’s first thought was: ‘Fleur is back!’ He then remembered.

To his: “O. K.?” whispered at her door, he received an emphatic nod from the nurse.

In the midst of excited expectation he retained enough modernity to think: ‘No more blurb! Go and eat your breakfast quietly!’

In the dining-room Soames was despising the broken egg before him. He looked up as Michael entered, and buried his face in his cup. Michael understood perfectly; they had sat hand in hand! He saw, too, that the journal opened by his plate was of a financial nature.

“Anything about the meeting, sir? Your speech must read like one o’clock!”

With a queer little sound Soames held out the paper. The headlines ran: “Stormy meeting—resignation of two directors—a vote of confidence.” Michael skimmed down till he came to:

“Mr. Forsyte, the director involved, in a speech of some length, said he had no intention of singing small. He deprecated the behaviour of the shareholders; he had not been accustomed to meet with suspicions. He tendered his resignation.”

Michael dropped the sheet.

“By Jove!” he said—“‘Involved—suspicions.’ They’ve given it a turn, as though—!”

“The papers!” said Soames, and resumed his egg.

Michael sat down, and stripped the skin off a banana. ‘“Nothing became him like his death,”’ he thought: ‘Poor old boy!’

“Well, sir,” he said, “I was there, and all I can say is: You and my father were the only two people who excited my respect.”

“That!” said Soames, putting down his spoon.

Michael perceived that he wished to be alone, and swallowing the banana, went to his study. Waiting for his summons, he rang up his father.

“None the worse for yesterday, sir?”

Sir Lawrence’s voice came clear and thin, rather high.

“Poorer and wiser. What’s the bulletin?”

“Top-hole.”

“Our love to both. Your mother wants to know if he has any hair?”

“Haven’t seen him yet. I’m just going.”

Annette, indeed, was beckoning him from the doorway.

“She wants you to bring the little dog, mon cher.”

With Ting-a-ling under his arm, and treading on tiptoe, Michael entered. The eleventh baronet! He did not seem to amount to much, beneath her head bent over him. And surely her hair was darker! He walked up to the bed, and touched it reverently.