And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth of art at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes⁠—Aunt Hester, for instance, who had always been musical⁠—could not help regretting that Francie’s music was not “classical”; the same with her poems. But then, as Aunt Hester said, they didn’t see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were “little light things.”

There was nobody who could write a poem like Paradise Lost , or Childe Harold , either of which made you feel that you really had read something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have something to occupy her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it!

And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen to the latest story of how Francie had got her price increased.

They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not to, for these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he never could catch what they said.

“And I can’t think,” said Mrs. Septimus, “how you do it. I should never have the audacity!”

Francie smiled lightly. “I’d much rather deal with a man than a woman. Women are so sharp!”

“My dear,” cried Mrs. Small, “I’m sure we’re not.”

Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the squeak, said, as though being strangled: “Oh, you’ll kill me some day, auntie.”