Without a
habitat a Forsyte is inconceivable--he would be like a novel without a
plot, which is well-known to be an anomaly.
To Forsyte eyes Bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed one
of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life surrounded by
circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives that do not belong to
them.
His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a plate,
was his name, 'Philip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,' were not those of
a Forsyte.--He had no sitting-room apart from his office, but a large
recess had been screened off to conceal the necessaries of life--a
couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit case, novels and slippers. The
business part of the room had the usual furniture; an open cupboard with
pigeon-holes, a round oak table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs,
a standing desk of large dimensions covered with drawings and designs.
June had twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt.
He was believed to have a bedroom at the back.
As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it consisted
of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, together with
an odd fee once in a way, and--more worthy item--a private annuity under
his father's will of one hundred and fifty pounds a year.
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