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He started for the Club in the afternoon with the letter in his pocket, and without having made up his mind.

To sound a man as to “his intentions” was peculiarly unpleasant to him; nor did his own anomalous position diminish this unpleasantness. It was so like his family, so like all the people they knew and mixed with, to enforce what they called their rights over a man, to bring him up to the mark; so like them to carry their business principles into their private relations.

And how that phrase in the letter—“You will, of course, in no way commit June”—gave the whole thing away.

Yet the letter, with the personal grievance, the concern for June, the “rap over the knuckles,” was all so natural. No wonder his father wanted to know what Bosinney meant, no wonder he was angry.

It was difficult to refuse! But why give the thing to him to do? That was surely quite unbecoming; but so long as a Forsyte got what he was after, he was not too particular about the means, provided appearances were saved.