He sent Bilson to light a
fire in his picture-room, and presently went up there himself.
Turning on the gas, he heaved a deep sigh, as though amongst these
treasures, the backs of which confronted him in stacks, around the
little room, he had found at length his peace of mind. He went straight
up to the greatest treasure of them all, an undoubted Turner, and,
carrying it to the easel, turned its face to the light. There had been
a movement in Turners, but he had not been able to make up his mind
to part with it. He stood for a long time, his pale, clean-shaven face
poked forward above his stand-up collar, looking at the picture as
though he were adding it up; a wistful expression came into his eyes;
he found, perhaps, that it came to too little. He took it down from
the easel to put it back against the wall; but, in crossing the room,
stopped, for he seemed to hear sobbing.
It was nothing--only the sort of thing that had been bothering him in
the morning. And soon after, putting the high guard before the blazing
fire, he stole downstairs.
Fresh for the morrow! was his thought. It was long before he went to
sleep....
It is now to George Forsyte that the mind must turn for light on the
events of that fog-engulfed afternoon.
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