“I don’t know that I want to see him unless it’s necessary,” said June.

“I expect he’ll feel exactly the same. If you just go out, he won’t pay any attention.”

“Oh!” said June, and out she went.

Through the window Fleur watched her moving as if she had not time to touch the ground.

A moment later Soames came in.

“What’s that woman want here?” he said. “She’s a stormy petrel.”

“Nothing much, dear; she has a new painter, whom she’s trying to boost.”

“Another of her lame ducks! She’s been famous for them all her life—ever since—” He stopped short of Bosinney’s name. “She’d never go anywhere without wanting something,” he added. “Did she get it?”

“Not more than I did, dear!”

Soames was silent, feeling vaguely that he had been near the proverb, “The kettle and the pot.” What was the use, indeed, of going anywhere unless you wanted something? It was one of the cardinal principles of life.

“I went to see that Morland,” he said; “it’s genuine enough. In fact, I bought it.” And he sank into a reverie…

Acquainted by Michael with the fact that the Marquess of Shropshire had a Morland he wanted to sell, he had said at once: “I don’t know that I want to buy one.”

“I thought you did, sir, from what you were saying the other day. It’s a white pony.”

“That, of course,” said Soames. “What does he want for it?”

“The market price, I believe.”

“There isn’t such a thing. Is it genuine?”

“It’s never changed hands, he says.” Soames brooded aloud. “The Marquess of Shropshire—that’s that red haired baggage’s grandfather, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but perfectly docile. He’d like you to see it, he said.”

“I daresay,” said Soames, and no more at the moment…

“Where’s this Morland?” he asked a few days later.

“At Shropshire House—in Curzon Street, sir.”

“Oh! Ah! Well, I’ll have a look at it.”

Having lunched at Green Street, where he was still staying, he walked round the necessary corners, and sent in his card, on which he had pencilled the words: “My son-inlaw, Michael Mont, says you would like me to see your Morland.”

The butler came back, and, opening a door, said:

“In here, sir. The Morland is over the sideboard.”

In that big dining-room, where even large furniture looked small, the Morland looked smaller, between two still-lifes of a Dutch size and nature. It had a simple scheme—white pony in stable, pigeon picking up some grains, small boy on upturned basket eating apple. A glance told Soames that it was genuine, and had not even been restored—the chiaroscuro was considerable. He stood, back to the light, looking at it attentively. Morland was not so sought after as he used to be; on the other hand, his pictures were distinctive and of a handy size. If one had not much space left, and wanted that period represented, he was perhaps the most repaying after Constable—good Old Cromes being so infernally rare. A Morland was a Morland, as a Millet was a Millet; and would never be anything else. Like all collectors in an experimental epoch, Soames was continually being faced with the advisability of buying not only what was what, but what would remain what. Such modern painters as were painting modern stuff, would, in his opinion, be dead as door-nails before he himself was; besides, however much he tried, he did not like the stuff. Such modern painters, like most of the academicians, as were painting ancient stuff, were careful fellows, no doubt, but who could say whether any of them would live? No! The only safe thing was to buy the dead, and only the dead who were going to live, at that. In this way—for Soames was not alone in his conclusions—the early decease of most living painters was ensured. They were already, indeed, saying that hardly one of them could sell a picture for love or money.

He was looking at the pony through his curved thumb and forefinger when he heard a slight sound; and, turning, saw a short old man in a tweed suit, apparently looking at him in precisely the same way.

Dropping his hand, and deciding not to say “His Grace,” or whatever it was, Soames muttered:

“I was looking at the tail—some good painting in that.”

The Marquess had also dropped his hand, and was consulting the card between his other thumb and forefinger.

“Mr. Forsyte? Yes. My grandfather bought it from the painter. There’s a note on the back. I don’t want to part with it, but these are lean days. Would you like to see the back?”

“Yes,” said Soames; “I always look at their backs.”

“Sometimes,” said the Marquess, detaching the Morland with difficulty, “the best part of the picture.”

Soames smiled down the further side of his mouth; he did not wish the old fellow to receive a false impression that he was ‘kowtowing,’ or anything of that sort.

“Something in the hereditary principle, Mr. Forsyte,” the Marquess went on, with his head on one side, “when it comes to the sale of heirlooms.”

“Oh! I can see it’s genuine,” said Soames, “without looking at the back.”

“Then, if you do want to buy, we can have a simple transaction between gentlemen. You know all about values, I hear.”

Soames put his head to the other side, and looked at the back of the picture. The old fellow’s words were so disarming, that for the life of him he could not tell whether or not to be disarmed.

“‘George Morland to Lord George Ferrar,’” he read, “‘for value received—L80. 1797.’”

“He came into the title later,” said the Marquess. “I’m glad Morland got his money—great rips, our grandfathers, Mr. Forsyte; days of great rips, those.”

Subtly flattered by the thought that “Superior Dosset” was a great rip, Soames expanded slightly.

“Great rip, Morland,” he said. “But there were real painters then, people could buy with confidence—they can’t now.”

“I’m not sure,” said the Marquess, “I’m not sure. The electrification of art may be a necessary process. We’re all in a movement, Mr. Forsyte.”

“Yes,” said Soames, glumly; “but we can’t go on at this rate—it’s not natural. We shall be standing-pat again before long.”

“I wonder. We must keep our minds open, mustn’t we?”

“The pace doesn’t matter so much,” said Soames, astonished at himself, “so long as it leads somewhere.”

The Marquess resigned the picture to the sideboard, and putting his foot up on a chair, leaned his elbow on his knee.

“Did your son-inlaw tell you for what I wanted the money? He has a scheme for electrifying slum kitchens. After all, we ARE cleaner and more humane than our grandfathers, Mr. Forsyte. Now, what do you think would be a fair price?”

“Why not get Dumetrius’ opinion?”

“The Haymarket man? Is his opinion better than yours?”

“That I can’t say,” said Soames, honestly. “But if you mentioned my name, he’d value the picture for five guineas, and might make you an offer himself.”

“I don’t think I should care for it to be known that I was selling pictures.”

“Well,” said Soames, “I don’t want you to get less than perhaps you could. But if I told Dumetrius to buy me a Morland, five hundred would be my limit. Suppose I give you six.”

The Marquess tilted up his beard. “That would be too generous, perhaps. Shall we say five-fifty?”

Soames shook his head.

“We won’t haggle,” he said. “Six. You can have the cheque now, and I’ll take it away. It will hang in my gallery at Mapledurham.”

The Marquess took his foot down, and sighed.

“Really, I’m very much obliged to you. I’m delighted to think it will go to a good home.”

“If you care to come and see it at any time—” Soames checked himself. An old fellow with one foot in the House of Lords and one in the grave, and no difference between them, to speak of—as if he’d want to come!

“That would be delightful,” said the Marquess, with his eyes wandering, as Soames had suspected they would. “Have you your own electric plant there?”