It was intricate and deeply involved with the growing consciousness that property without anyone to leave it to is the negation of true Forsyteism.

To have an heir, some continuance of self, who would begin where he left off--ensure, in fact, that he would not leave off--had quite obsessed him for the last year and more.

After buying a bit of Wedgwood one evening in April, he had dropped into Malta Street to look at a house of his father's which had been turned into a restaurant--a risky proceeding, and one not quite in accordance with the terms of the lease.

He had stared for a little at the outside painted a good cream colour, with two peacock-blue tubs containing little bay-trees in a recessed doorway--and at the words 'Restaurant Bretagne' above them in gold letters, rather favourably impressed.

Entering, he had noticed that several people were already seated at little round green tables with little pots of fresh flowers on them and Brittany-ware plates, and had asked of a trim waitress to see the proprietor.