“He has not,” she answered firmly. “He’s gone to Buenos Aires.”
If she had said “He’s gone to Mars” she could not have dealt James a more stunning blow; his imagination, invested entirely in British securities, could as little grasp one place as the other.
“What’s he gone there for?” he said. “He’s got no money. What did he take?”
Agitated within by Winifred’s news, and goaded by the constant reiteration of this jeremiad, Emily said calmly:
“He took Winifred’s pearls and a dancer.”
“What!” said James, and sat down.
His sudden collapse alarmed her, and smoothing his forehead, she said:
“Now, don’t fuss, James!”
A dusky red had spread over James’ cheeks and forehead.
“I paid for them,” he said tremblingly; “he’s a thief! I—I knew how it would be. He’ll be the death of me; he ....” Words failed him and he sat quite still. Emily, who thought she knew him so well, was alarmed, and went towards the sideboard where she kept some sal volatile. She could not see the tenacious Forsyte spirit working in that thin, tremulous shape against the extravagance of the emotion called up by this outrage on Forsyte principles—the Forsyte spirit deep in there, saying: “You mustn’t get into a fantod, it’ll never do. You won’t digest your lunch. You’ll have a fit!” All unseen by her, it was doing better work in James than sal volatile.