e her what was called 'a Celtic appearance.' She wrote songs
with titles like 'Breathing Sighs,' or 'Kiss me, Mother, ere I die,'
with a refrain like an anthem:

'Kiss me, Mother, ere I die;
Kiss me-kiss me, Mother, ah!
Kiss, ah! kiss me e-ere I--
Kiss me, Mother, ere I d-d-die!'

She wrote the words to them herself, and other poems. In lighter moments
she wrote waltzes, one of which, the 'Kensington Coil,' was almost
national to Kensington, having a sweet dip in it.

It was very original. Then there were her 'Songs for Little People,'
at once educational and witty, especially 'Gran'ma's Porgie,' and that
ditty, almost prophetically imbued with the coming Imperial spirit,
entitled 'Black Him In His Little Eye.'

Any publisher would take these, and reviews like 'High Living,' and
the 'Ladies' Genteel Guide' went into raptures over: 'Another of Miss
Francie Forsyte's spirited ditties, sparkling and pathetic. We ourselves
were moved to tears and laughter. Miss Forsyte should go far.'

With the true instinct of her breed, Francie had made a point of knowing
the right people--people who would write about her, and talk about her,
and people in Society, too--keeping a mental register of just where
to exert her fascinations, and an eye on that steady scale of rising
prices, which in her mind's eye represented the future. In this way she
caused herself to be universally respected.

Once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an attachment--for
the tenor of Roger's life, with its whole-hearted collection of
house property, had induced in his only daughter a tendency towards
passion--she turned to great and sincere work, choosing the sonata form,
for the violin. This was the only one of her productions that troubled
the Forsytes. They felt at once that it would not sell.

Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often alluded
to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was upset by this
violin sonata.

"Rubbish like that!" he called it. Francie had borrowed young
Flageoletti from Euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at Prince's
Gardens.

As a matter of fact Roger was right. It was rubbish, but--annoying! the
sort of rubbish that wouldn't sell. As every Forsyte knows, rubbish that
sells is not rubbish at all--far from it.

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