"You may depend upon it, they're a cranky lot, the Forsytes--and you'll
find it out, as you grow older!"
Timothy alone held apart, for though he ate saddle of mutton heartily,
he was, he said, afraid of it.
To anyone interested psychologically in Forsytes, this great
saddle-of-mutton trait is of prime importance; not only does it
illustrate their tenacity, both collectively and as individuals, but it
marks them as belonging in fibre and instincts to that great class
which believes in nourishment and flavour, and yields to no sentimental
craving for beauty.
Younger members of the family indeed would have done without a joint
altogether, preferring guinea-fowl, or lobster salad--something which
appealed to the imagination, and had less nourishment--but these were
females; or, if not, had been corrupted by their wives, or by mothers,
who having been forced to eat saddle of mutton throughout their married
lives, had passed a secret hostility towards it into the fibre of their
sons.
The great saddle-of-mutton controversy at an end, a Tewkesbury ham
commenced, together with the least touch of West Indian--Swithin was
so long over this course that he caused a block in the progress of the
dinner. To devote himself to it with better heart, he paused in his
conversation.
From his seat by Mrs. Septimus Small Soames was watching. He had a
reason of his own connected with a pet building scheme, for observing
Bosinney. The architect might do for his purpose; he looked clever, as
he sat leaning back in his chair, moodily making little ramparts with
bread-crumbs. Soames noted his dress clothes to be well cut, but too
small, as though made many years ago.
He saw him turn to Irene and say something and her face sparkle as he
often saw it sparkle at other people--never at himself. He tried to
catch what they were saying, but Aunt Juley was speaking.
Hadn't that always seemed very extraordinary to Soames? Only last Sunday
dear Mr. Scole, had been so witty in his sermon, so sarcastic, "For
what," he had said, "shall it profit a man if he gain his own soul,
but lose all his property?" That, he had said, was the motto of the
middle-class; now, what had he meant by that? Of course, it might be
what middle-class people believed--she didn't know; what did Soames
think?
He answered abstractedly: "How should I know? Scoles is a humbug,
though, isn't he?" For Bosinney was looking round the table, as if
pointing out the peculiarities of the guests, and Soames wondered
what he was saying. By her smile Irene was evidently agreeing with his
remarks. She seemed always to agree with other people.