A Forsyte, you will notice, never
gives himself away."
"Joking?"
Young Jolyon's eye twinkled.
"Not much. As a Forsyte myself, I have no business to talk. But I'm a
kind of thoroughbred mongrel; now, there's no mistaking you: You're
as different from me as I am from my Uncle James, who is the perfect
specimen of a Forsyte. His sense of property is extreme, while you have
practically none. Without me in between, you would seem like a different
species. I'm the missing link. We are, of course, all of us the slaves
of property, and I admit that it's a question of degree, but what I
call a 'Forsyte' is a man who is decidedly more than less a slave of
property. He knows a good thing, he knows a safe thing, and his grip
on property--it doesn't matter whether it be wives, houses, money, or
reputation--is his hall-mark."
"Ah!" murmured Bosinney. "You should patent the word."
"I should like," said young Jolyon, "to lecture on it:
"Properties and quality of a Forsyte: This little animal, disturbed
by the ridicule of his own sort, is unaffected in his motions by the
laughter of strange creatures (you or I). Hereditarily disposed to
myopia, he recognises only the persons of his own species, amongst which
he passes an existence of competitive tranquillity.
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