not he!

Going up to his horses' heads, he examined their bits; not that he knew
anything about bits--he didn't pay his coachman sixty pounds a year to
do his work for him, that had never been his principle. Indeed, his
reputation as a horsey man rested mainly on the fact that once, on Derby
Day, he had been welshed by some thimble-riggers. But someone at the
Club, after seeing him drive his greys up to the door--he always drove
grey horses, you got more style for the money, some thought--had called
him 'Four-in-hand Forsyte.' The name having reached his ears through that
fellow Nicholas Treffry, old Jolyon's dead partner, the great driving man
notorious for more carriage accidents than any man in the
kingdom--Swithin had ever after conceived it right to act up to it. The
name had taken his fancy, not because he had ever driven four-in-hand, or
was ever likely to, but because of something distinguished in the sound.
Four-in-hand Forsyte! Not bad! Born too soon, Swithin had missed his
vocation. Coming upon London twenty years later, he could not have
failed to have become a stockbroker, but at the time when he was obliged
to select, this great profession had not as yet became the chief glory of
the upper-middle class. He had literally been forced into land agency.

Once in the driving seat, with the reins handed to him, and blinking over
his pale old cheeks in the full sunlight, he took a slow look
round--Adolf was already up behind; the cockaded groom at the horses'
heads stood ready to let go; everything was prepared for the signal, and
Swithin gave it. The equipage dashed forward, and before you could say
Jack Robinson, with a rattle and flourish drew up at Soames' door.

Irene came out at once, and stepped in--he afterward described it at
Timothy's--"as light as--er--Taglioni, no fuss about it, no wanting this
or wanting that;" and above all, Swithin dwelt on this, staring at Mrs.
Septimus in a way that disconcerted her a good deal, "no silly
nervousness!" To Aunt Hester he portrayed Irene's hat. "Not one of your
great flopping things, sprawling about, and catching the dust, that women
are so fond of nowadays, but a neat little--" he made a circular motion
of his hand, "white veil--capital taste."

"What was it made of?" inquired Aunt Hester, who manifested a languid but
permanent excitement at any mention of dress.

"Made of?" returned Swithin; "now how should I know?"

He sank into silence so profo