It is not too much to say that Dartie had been living on hope for months. He had never been fond of money for itself, had always despised the Forsytes with their investing habits, though careful to make such use of them as he could. What he liked about money was what it bought⁠—personal sensation.

“No real sportsman cares for money,” he would say, borrowing a “pony” if it was no use trying for a “monkey.” There was something delicious about Montague Dartie. He was, as George Forsyte said, a “daisy.”