But it’s worf more,” said Eustace.
“The deuce it is!” said the old gentleman. His voice rumbled, and his eyes, grey and rather bloodshot, twinkled. “Why do you want to sell it?”
“Because we haven’t got the key,” said Francie.
“So we can’t get the money out,” added Eustace. “It belongs to us and we shall want it out, you see.”
“What d’you want it out for?” said the old gentleman.
“To buy our dinner.”
“You’re a rum couple,” said the old gentleman. “What’s your name?”
“Will you buy the box?” said Eustace: “then we’ll tell you.”
“What should I do with the box, heh?”
“You could carry it in one of your big pockets?”
“Well,” said the old gentleman, “here’s five bob. Hand it over. Now, what’s your name?”
“Forsyte,” said Francie. “I’m Francie, and this is Eustace.”
“Forsyte?” grunted the old gentleman. “The deuce it is! Where d’you live?”
“Are you to be twusted?” asked Eustace, tilting the umbrella backwards.
The old gentleman uttered a guffaw.
“What do you want to trust me for?”
“Well, you see,” said Eustace cautiously, “we’re wunning away for the pwesent.”
“Oh!” said the old gentleman, and rumbled.
“We had to,” said Francie, “because of Smith. It’s a long story.”
“Well,” said the old gentleman, rising, “come and have your dinner with me, and tell me all about it. What’s your father’s Christian name?”
“Roger.”
“Oh! Ah!” said the old gentleman. “Well, I know your uncles Jolyon and Swithin, and your cousin Jo. My name’s Nicholas Treffry. Ever heard it?”
“No,” said Eustace.
“I have,” cried Francie. “Father says you’re notorious. What does that mean?”
The ‘notorious’ Mr. Treffry chuckled.
“My carriage is out there at the Gate. Come along and I’ll show you why he calls me notorious.”
The two children looked at each other, then Eustace whispered:
“All wight, he’s wespectable.”
“The deuce, he is!” said Mr. Treffry unexpectedly. “Come along, young shavers.”
The two children accompanied him silently to the Gate. Outside stood a pair of fine horses harnessed to a phaeton with the hood up. A tiger stood at their heads.
“Up you get!” said Mr. Treffry.
Francie mounted with alacrity. Eustace hung back.
“Where are you going to take us?”
“The Albany–know it?”
“Yes,” said Eustace, “George went there once.”
“Respectable enough for you, heh?”
“Yes,” said Eustace, and furling the umbrella, mounted beside his sister.
Mr. Treffry clambered heavily to his driver’s seat alongside.
“Let go, Tim.”
The horses sprang forward, the tiger let go, and, running, caught on behind.
The carriage swung from side to side; Francie’s eyes danced.
“I–I like it,” she said.
“Your father’d have a fit, if he saw us,” chuckled Mr. Treffry. “He lives in Prince’s Gate, doesn’t he?”
Eustace looked round at him, and in imitation of Smith, closed his left eye.
“You’re a cool young man,” said Mr. Treffry.
The pavements of those days not being precisely smooth, they made but a rough passage to the Albany, where, after they had been made clean and comfortable under the auspices of the valet, the children repaired to a low panelled room with pictures of dogs and horses on the walls, a case of guns in one corner, and some black Chinese tea chests, embossed with figures and flowers in coloured lacquer.
“Now,” said Mr. Treffry, “let’s have some prog.”
The prog consisted of grouse and pancakes and spiky artichokes, and each child was given a glass of wine.
“Well,” said Mr. Treffry, “what was it all about, heh?”
Francie related the story of Smith.
“H’m!” Mr. Treffry rumbled. “So your father lost his spoons?”
“And we’ve got his umbwella,” said Eustace.
“Well, I’ll see you’re not birched, though I daresay you deserve it. Your mother must be in a pretty stew. Green, have the phaeton round again.”
They made an even rougher passage back to Prince’s Gate.
“Here’s your money-box,” said Mr. Treffry.
“But you bought it!”
“Tut! Here! My dear! Take my card to your master.”
Francie caught the maid by the sleeve.
“Has Smith gone, Annie?”
“Not yet, Miss. We’ve all been in a state about you.”
“Hooray! D’you hear, Eustace? Smith hasn’t gone.”
“All wight, don’t make a wow!”
Roger, Mrs. Roger, three maids and Smith all seemed to have gathered from nowhere in particular.
“How are you?” said Mr. Treffry, advancing in front of the children. “I thought you’d be in a stew. I’m your brother Jolyon’s partner–Nicholas Treffry. These young shavers ran out to cool their heads. I’ve given ’em their dinner and brought ’em back none the worse.”
“H’m!” said Roger profoundly.
“They ought to be birched, no doubt,” continued Mr. Treffry, looking bigger and bigger; “but I promised they shouldn’t be. You,” he added, pointing to Smith, “the chap who got drunk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“H’m! Let him off this time. Here’s your umbrella.”
Roger took the umbrella.
“Well,” he said,” I don’t know what’s coming to things.” He held out his hand to Mr. Treffry. “My brother’s always talking about you. He says you’ll break your neck one of these days.”
“H’m! He’s a careful chap, Jo. Glad you’ve got ’em back. Good-bye to you, Ma’am. Good-bye, young shavers.”
And, rumbling, Mr. Treffry passed out.
There was a silence.
“Well,” said Roger at last, while a little smile twitched between his whiskers and vanished into them, “don’t let me hear a word more about anything from any of you.” And he withdrew into the dining-room.
Francie rushed at Smith, and mechanically felt his muscle.
“Dear Smith!”
“Muvver,” said Eustace, “we had gwouse, pancakes, and spiky artichokes, and we dwove like Jehu.”
So ended the revolt at Roger’s, which, together perhaps with the Franco–German war, in that same year laid the foundations of a looser philosophy.

JUNE’S FIRST LAME DUCK, 1876

The life of little June Forsyte until the age of nearly eight had been spent in superintending the existence of her dolls. Not until the autumn of 1876 did she find a human being whose destiny she could control.
It happened thus: The stables of her grandfather old Jolyon Forsyte’s house in Stanhope Gate where June and, incidentally, her mother resided with her grandparents, were round the corner. They consisted of two stalls and a loose box occupied by the carriage horses Brownie and Betty and by her pony Bruce. Above were the three rooms of the coachman Betters, his wife, and little daughter, the groom living God knew more precisely where.
One October noon, in her long blue habit, with her spirit and her eyes looking up out of her flaming hair, June was lifted from her pony at the stable door.
“That pony’s artful, Miss June; don’t you give him more than two carrots, or ‘e’ll think he can do what ‘e likes with you.”
“Darling!” said June in a voice strangely deep for a small child. Having given the pony four carrots she remained standing beside it in the stall, fervently stroking its nose. In the next stall the groom was hissing while he wisped down Betty, preferred by Betters as a mount to Brownie–“an ‘oss that did that not throw you up.”
“George, which do you think is the most beautiful, Brownie or Betty?”
The groom jerked his head at the loose box.
“That ‘oss is the best-lookin’, Miss June.”
“Then I shall give Brownie one carrot and Betty two–it isn’t her fault, is it, poor darling?”
Having given the carrots and had her capped head nuzzled, she went out and stood in the yard. Betters had disappeared up the stairway to his rooms, whence a smell of onions indicated that Mrs. Betters, a small pale puckered woman, was cooking steak.
The yard was deserted but for a pigeon, towards which June ran so that the pigeon at once left for the roof. Hurt in her feelings June had gathered up her tail, and was moving towards the house when round the corner came a little girl blubbering into her sleeve.
“Susie Betters, what are you crying for?”
The little girl, who was plain and thin, blubbered the louder.
“They pinched me; they said I was a thief ‘cos I only took the top what belonged to me.” She displayed some pinch marks on her arms and some mud stains on her frock.
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