“Well,” he said, “I shall have to see Soames. If there’s anything I can do for you I’m always at your service. You must think of me as a wretched substitute for my father. At all events I’ll let you know what happens when I speak to Soames. He may supply the material himself.”
She shook her head.
“You see, he has a lot to lose; and I have nothing. I should like him to be free; but I don’t see what I can do.”
“Nor I at the moment,” said Jolyon, and soon after took his leave. He went down to his hansom. Half-past three! Soames would be at his office still.
“To the Poultry,” he called through the trap. In front of the Houses of Parliament and in Whitehall, newsvendors were calling, “Grave situation in the Transvaal!” but the cries hardly roused him, absorbed in recollection of that very beautiful figure, of her soft dark glance, and the words: “I have never had one since.” What on earth did such a woman do with her life, back-watered like this? Solitary, unprotected, with every man’s hand against her or rather—reaching out to grasp her at the least sign. And year after year she went on like that!
The word “Poultry” above the passing citizens brought him back to reality.
“Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte,” in black letters on a ground the colour of peasoup, spurred him to a sort of vigour, and he went up the stone stairs muttering: “Fusty musty ownerships! Well, we couldn’t do without them!”
“I want Mr. Soames Forsyte,” he said to the boy who opened the door.
“What name?”
“Mr. Jolyon Forsyte.”