“I don’t know whether I catch your drift,” said Bosinney, “but I fancy there are plenty of Forsytes, as you call them, in my profession.”

“Certainly,” replied young Jolyon. “The great majority of architects, painters, or writers have no principles, like any other Forsytes. Art, literature, religion, survive by virtue of the few cranks who really believe in such things, and the many Forsytes who make a commercial use of them. At a low estimate, three-fourths of our Royal Academicians are Forsytes, seven-eighths of our novelists, a large proportion of the press. Of science I can’t speak; they are magnificently represented in religion; in the House of Commons perhaps more numerous than anywhere; the aristocracy speaks for itself. But I’m not laughing. It is dangerous to go against the majority⁠—and what a majority!” He fixed his eyes on Bosinney: “It’s dangerous to let anything carry you away⁠—a house, a picture, a⁠—woman!”

They looked at each other.⁠—And, as though he had done that which no Forsyte did⁠—given himself away, young Jolyon drew into his shell. Bosinney broke the silence.