James was stirred to the depths of his long thin figure; he had no idea
his niece held such downright views.
"Why don't you go into the country?" repeated June; "it would do you a
lot of good."
"Why?" began James in a fluster. "Buying land--what good d'you suppose I
can do buying land, building houses?--I couldn't get four per cent. for
my money!"
"What does that matter? You'd get fresh air."
"Fresh air!" exclaimed James; "what should I do with fresh air,"
"I should have thought anybody liked to have fresh air," said June
scornfully.
James wiped his napkin all over his mouth.
"You don't know the value of money," he said, avoiding her eye.
"No! and I hope I never shall!" and, biting her lip with inexpressible
mortification, poor June was silent.
Why were her own relations so rich, and Phil never knew where the money
was coming from for to-morrow's tobacco. Why couldn't they do
something for him? But they were so selfish. Why couldn't they build
country-houses? She had all that naive dogmatism which is so pathetic,
and sometimes achieves such great results. Bosinney, to whom she turned
in her discomfiture, was talking to Irene, and a chill fell on June's
spirit. Her eyes grew steady with anger, like old Jolyon's when his will
was crossed.
James, too, was much disturbed. He felt as though someone had threatened
his right to invest his money at five per cent. Jolyon had spoiled her.
None of his girls would have said such a thing. James had always been
exceedingly liberal to his children, and the consciousness of this
made him feel it all the more deeply. He trifled moodily with his
strawberries, then, deluging them with cream, he ate them quickly; they,
at all events, should not escape him.
No wonder he was upset. Engaged for fifty-four years (he had been
admitted a solicitor on the earliest day sanctioned by the law) in
arranging mortgages, preserving investments at a dead level of high and
safe interest, conducting negotiations on the principle of securing
the utmost possible out of other people compatible with safety to
his clients and himself, in calculations as to the exact pecuniary
possibilities of all the relations of life, he had come at last to
think purely in terms of money. Money was now his light, his medium
for seeing, that without which he was really unable to see, really not
cognisant of phenomena; and to have this thing, "I hope I shall never
know the value of money!" said to his face, saddened and exasperated
him. He knew it to be nonsense, or it would have frightened him. What
was the world coming to! Suddenly recollecting the story of young
Jolyon, however, he felt a little comforted, for what could you expect
with a father like that! This turned his thoughts into a channel still
less pleasant. What was all this talk about Soames and Irene?