But June was not to be diverted.
“I don’t know why sentiment should be sneered at. It’s the best thing in the world.” She looked defiantly round, and Aunt Juley had to intervene again:
“Have you bought any pictures lately, Soames?”
Her incomparable instinct for the wrong subject had not failed her. Soames flushed. To disclose the name of his latest purchases would be like walking into the jaws of disdain. For somehow they all knew of June’s predilection for “genius” not yet on its legs, and her contempt for “success” unless she had had a finger in securing it.
“One or two,” he muttered.
But June’s face had changed; the Forsyte within her was seeing its chance. Why should not Soames buy some of the pictures of Eric Cobbley—her last lame duck? And she promptly opened her attack: Did Soames know his work? It was so wonderful. He was the coming man.
Oh, yes, Soames knew his work. It was in his view “splashy,” and would never get hold of the public.
June blazed up.
“Of course it won’t; that’s the last thing one would wish for. I thought you were a connoisseur, not a picture-dealer.”
“Of course Soames is a connoisseur,” Aunt Juley said hastily; “he has wonderful taste—he can always tell beforehand what’s going to be successful.”