had been making a move he would have gone at once⁠—very competitive, and with a strong sense of form, he could not bear to be left behind in anything⁠—but to do it off his own bat might look like swagger; because of course it wasn’t really necessary. Besides, he did not want to go, for the other side of this young Forsyte recoiled from leaping before he looked. It was altogether mixed pickles within him, hot and sickly pickles, and he became quite unlike his serene and rather lordly self.