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Once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an attachment—for the tenor of Roger’s life, with its whole-hearted collection of house property, had induced in his only daughter a tendency towards passion—she turned to great and sincere work, choosing the sonata form, for the violin. This was the only one of her productions that troubled the Forsytes. They felt at once that it would not sell.

Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often alluded to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was upset by this violin sonata.

“Rubbish like that!” he called it. Francie had borrowed young Flageoletti from Euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at Prince’s Gardens.

As a matter of fact Roger was right. It was rubbish, but—annoying! the sort of rubbish that wouldn’t sell. As every Forsyte knows, rubbish that sells is not rubbish at all—far from it.

And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth of art at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes—Aunt Hester, for instance, who had always been musical—could not help regretting that Francie’s music was not “classical”. the same with her poems. But then, as Aunt Hester said, they didn’t see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were “little light things.” There was nobody who could write a poem like “Paradise Lost,” or “Childe Harold”; either of which made you feel that you really had read something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have something to occupy her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it!