It was only a fair Goya, but almost unique in England, and the noble owner became a marked man. The noble owner had remained in ignorance of its value until in the nineties an enterprising critic discovered that a Spanish painter named Goya was a genius. The real Goya’s noble owner’s ancestor had come into possession of it during some Spanish war-it was in a word loot. Soames passed into the corner where, side by side, hung his real Goya, and the copy of the fresco “La Vendimia.” His acquisition of the real Goya rather beautifully illustrated the cobweb of vested interests and passions, which mesh the bright-winged fly of human life. “Oh! you DO?” he said dryly “I gave five hundred for it.” He was wondering whether Profond would take them off his hands-the fellow seemed not to know what to do with his money-when he heard his sister’s voice say: “I think that’s a horrid thing, Soames.” and saw that Winifred had followed him up. He had bought the ugly great thing with two early Matisses before the war, because there was such a fuss about those Post-Impressionist chaps.

He stood before his Gauguin-sorest point of his collection. She had been expected on Wednesday had wired that it would be Friday and again on Friday that it would be Sunday afternoon and here were her aunt, and her cousins the Cardigans, and this fellow Profond, and everything flat as a pancake for the want of her. He had what Annette called “a grief.” Fleur was not yet home. Lunch was over and Soames mounted to the picture-gallery in his house near Mapledurham.

Galsworthy the forsyte saga