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Updated: May 4, 2025
The Sunday visit to his family in Park Lane, to Timothy's, and to Green Street; the occasional visits elsewhere had seemed to him as necessary to health as sea air on weekdays. Even since his migration to Mapledurham he had maintained those habits until he had known Annette.
There, on the right, is Mapledurham, a grand mediaeval building, surrounded by such a wealth of stately trees as you will see nowhere else. The Thames runs practically through the grounds. What a glorious carpet of gold is spread over these meadows when the buttercups are in full bloom! Now comes Pangbourne, with its lovely weir, where the big Thames trout love to lie.
Not even a dog or cat, so far as he had seen. And that reminded him suddenly of the mare he kept for station work at Mapledurham. If ever he went to the stable, there she was quite alone, half asleep, and yet, on her home journeys going more freely than on her way out, as if longing to be back and lonely in her stable! 'I would treat her well, he thought incoherently.
A marriage at the Embassy in Paris, a few months' travel, and he could bring Annette back quite separated from a past which in truth was not too distinguished, for she only kept the accounts in her mother's Soho Restaurant; he could bring her back as something very new and chic with her French taste and self-possession, to reign at 'The Shelter' near Mapledurham.
Such, for example, were the Carylls of West Grinstead, and the Blounts of Mapledurham, where there were two bright-eyed daughters of Pope's own age, the "fair-hair'd Martha and Teresa brown," whose names, linked in Gay's dancing-verse, were afterward to be indissolubly connected with that of their Binfield neighbor.
"Soho," said Annette simply. Soames snapped his jaw. "Soho?" repeated Aunt Juley; "Soho?" 'That'll go round the family, thought Soames. "It's very French, and interesting," he said. "Yes," murmured Aunt Juley, "your Uncle Roger had some houses there once; he was always having to turn the tenants out, I remember." Soames changed the subject to Mapledurham.
Bluebells carpeted the ground there; among the larch-trees there was mystery the air, as it were, composed of that romantic quality. Jon sniffed its freshness, and stared at the bluebells in the sharpening light. Fleur! It rhymed with her! And she lived at Mapledurham a jolly name, too, on the river somewhere. He could find it in the atlas presently. He would write to her. But would she answer?
"Fleur Forsyte it's mine all right. Thank you ever so." Good God! She had caught the trick from what he'd told her in the Gallery monkey! "Forsyte? Why that's my name too. Perhaps we're cousins." "Really! We must be. There aren't any others. I live at Mapledurham; where do you?" "Robin Hill." Question and answer had been so rapid that all was over before he could lift a finger.
Not even a dog or cat, so far as he had seen. And that reminded him suddenly of the mare he kept for station work at Mapledurham. If ever he went to the stable, there she was quite alone, half asleep, and yet, on her home journeys going more freely than on her way out, as if longing to be back and lonely in her stable! 'I would treat her well, he thought incoherently.
On that visit he had as never before commissioned a copy of a fresco painting called "La Vendimia," wherein was the figure of a girl with an arm akimbo, who had reminded him of his daughter. He had it now in the Gallery at Mapledurham, and rather poor it was you couldn't copy Goya.
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