The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy Page B

and ruling off lines on a plan. Soames refused a drink, and came at once to the point.
    â€œIf you’ve nothing better to do on Sunday, come down with me to Robin Hill, and give me your opinion on a building site.”
    â€œAre you going to build?”
    â€œPerhaps,” said Soames; “but don’t speak of it. I just want your opinion.”
    â€œQuite so,” said the architect.
    Soames peered about the room.
    â€œYou’re rather high up here,” he remarked.
    Any information he could gather about the nature and scope of Bosinney’s business would be all to the good.
    â€œIt does well enough for me so far,” answered the architect. “You’re accustomed to the swells.”
    He knocked out his pipe, but replaced it empty between his teeth; it assisted him perhaps to carry on the conversation. Soames noted a hollow in each cheek, made as it were by suction.
    â€œWhat do you pay for an office like this?” said he.
    â€œFifty too much,” replied Bosinney.
    This answer impressed Soames favourably.
    â€œI suppose it
is
dear,” he said. “I’ll call for you—on Sunday about eleven.”
    The following Sunday therefore he called for Bosinney in a hansom, and drove him to the station. On arriving at Robin Hill, they found no cab, and started to walk the mile and a half to the site.
    It was the first of August—a perfect day, with a burning sun and cloudless sky—and in the straight, narrow road leading up the hill their feet kicked up a yellow dust.
    â€œGravel soil,” remarked Soames, and sideways he glanced at the coat Bosinney wore. Into the side pockets of this coat were thrust bundles of papers, and under one arm was carried a queer-looking stick. Soames noted these and other peculiarities.
    No one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have taken such liberties with his appearance; and though these eccentricities were revolting to Soames, he derived a certain satisfaction from them, as evidence of qualities by which he must inevitably profit. If the fellow could build houses, what did his clothes matter?
    â€œI told you,” he said, “that I want this house to be a surprise, so don’t say anything about it. I never talk of my affairs until they’re carried through.”
    Bosinney nodded.
    â€œLet women into your plans,” pursued Soames, “and you never know where it’ll end.”
    â€œAh!” said Bosinney, “women are the devil!”
    This feeling had long been at the bottom of Soames’s heart; he had never, however, put it into words.
    â€œOh!” he muttered, “so you’re beginning to. . . .” He stopped, but added, with an uncontrollable burst of spite: “June’s got a temper of her own—always had.”
    â€œA temper’s not a bad thing in an angel.”
    Soames had never called Irene an angel. He could not so have violated his best instincts, letting other people into the secret of her value, and giving himself away. He made no reply.
    They had struck into a half-made road across a warren. A cart track led at right-angles to a gravel pit, beyond which the chimneys of a cottage rose amongst a clump of trees at the border of a thick wood. Tussocks of feathery grass covered the rough surface of the ground, and out of these the larks soared into the haze of sunshine. On the far horizon, over a countless succession of fields and hedges, rose a line of downs.
    Soames led till they had crossed to the far side, and there he stopped. It was the chosen site; but now that he was about to divulge the spot to another he had become uneasy.
    â€œThe agent lives in that cottage,” he said; “he’ll give us some lunch—we’d better have lunch before we go into this matter.”
    He again took the lead to the cottage, where the agent, a tall man named Oliver, with a heavy face and grizzled beard, welcomed them. During lunch, which