'Indeed! To mind one's own business is not a form of thought, Mr Mont, it's an instinct.'
Yes, when Jon was the business!
'But what is one's business, sir? That's the point. Everybody's business is going to be one's business. Isn't it, Fleur?'
Fleur only smiled.
'If not,' added young Mont, 'there'll be blood.'
'People have talked like that from time immemorial.'
'But you'll admit, sir, that the sense of property is dying out?'
'I should say increasing among those who have none.'
'Well, look at me! I'm heir to an entailed estate.* I don't want the thing; I'd cut the entail to-morrow.'
'You're not married, and you don't know what you're talking about.'
Fleur saw the young man's eyes turn rather piteously upon her.
'Do you really mean that marriage-----?' he began.
'Society is built on marriage,' came from between her father's close lips; 'marriage and its consequences. Do you want to do away with it?'
Young Mont made a distracted gesture. Silence brooded over the dinner table, covered with spoons bearing the Forsyte crest-- a pheasant proper--under the electric light in an alabaster globe. And outside, the river evening darkened, charged with heavy moisture and sweet scents.
'Monday,' thought Fleur; 'Monday!'
THE weeks which followed the death of his father were sad and empty to the only Jolyon Forsyte left. The necessary forms and ceremonies--the reading of the Will, valuation of the estate, distribution of the legacies--were enacted over the head, as it were, of one not yet of age. Jolyon was cremated. By his special wish no one attended that ceremony, or wore black for him. The succession of his property, controlled to some extent by old Jolyon's Will, left his widow in possession of Robin Hill, with