John Galsworthy......................................................................................................................................1

In the last day of May in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the

oak tree below the terrace of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges to bite him, before

abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a

cigar in its tapering, longnailed fingersa pointed polished nail had survived with him from those earlier

Victorian days when to touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so distinguished. His domed

forehead, great white moustache, lean cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering sunshine

by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed; in all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as

of an old man who every morning put eau de Cologne upon his silk handkerchief. At his feet lay a woolly

brownandwhite dog trying to be a Pomeranianthe dog Balthasar between whom and old Jolyon primal

aversion had changed into attachment with the years. Close to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was

seated one of Holly's dolls called 'Duffer Alice'with her body fallen over her legs and her doleful nose

buried in a black petticoat. She was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. Below the

oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields,

dropping to the pond, the coppice, and the prospect 'Fine, remarkable'at which Swithin Forsyte, from under

this very tree, had stared five years ago when he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Old Jolyon had

heard of his brother's exploitthat drive which had become quite celebrated on Forsyte 'Change.' Swithin!

And the fellow had gone and died, last November, at the age of only seventynine, renewing the doubt

whether Forsytes could live for ever, which had first arisen when Aunt Ann passed away. Died! and left only

Jolyon and James, Roger and Nicholas and Timothy, Julia, Hester, Susan! And old Jolyon thought:

His memory went searching. He had not felt his age since he had bought his nephew Soames' illstarred

house and settled into it here at Robin Hill over three years ago. It was as if he had been getting younger

every spring, living in the country with his son and his grandchildrenJune, and the little ones of the second

marriage, Jolly and Holly; living down here out of the racket of London and the cackle of Forsyte 'Change,'

free of his boards, in a delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of occupation in the

perfecting and mellowing of the house and its twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of Holly and

Jolly. All the knots and crankiness, which had gathered in his heart during that long and tragic business of

June, Soames, Irene his wife, and poor young Bosinney, had been smoothed out. Even June had thrown off

her melancholy at lastwitness this travel in Spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother.

Curiously perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, yet blank, because his son was not there. Jo was

never anything but a comfort and a pleasure to him nowadaysan amiable chap; but women,

somehoweven the bestgot a little on one's nerves, unless of course one admired them.

Faroff a cuckoo called; a woodpigeon was cooing from the first elmtree in the field, and how the daisies

and buttercups had sprung up after the last mowing! The wind had got into the sou' west, tooa delicious

air, sappy! He pushed his hat back and let the sun fall on his chin and cheek. Somehow, today, he wanted

company wanted a pretty face to look at. People treated the old as if they wanted nothing. And with the

unForsytean philosophy which ever intruded on his soul, he thought: 'One's never had enough'

With a foot in the grave one'll want something, I shouldn't be surprised!' Down hereaway from the

exigencies of affairshis grandchildren, and the flowers, trees, birds of his little domain, to say nothing of

sun and moon and stars above them, said, 'Open, sesame,' to him day and night. And sesame had

openedhow much, perhaps, he did not know. He had always been responsive to what they had begun to

call 'Nature,' genuinely, almost religiously responsive, though he had never lost his habit of calling a sunset a

sunset and a view a view, however deeply they might move him. But nowadays Nature actually made him

ache, he appreciated it so. Every one of these calm, bright, lengthening days, with Holly's hand in his, and the

dog Balthasar in front looking studiously for what he never found, he would stroll, watching the roses open,

fruit budding on the walls, sunlight brightening the oak leaves and saplings in the coppice, watching the

waterlily leaves unfold and glisten, and the silvery young corn of the one wheat field; listening to the

starlings and skylarks, and the Alderney cows chewing the cud, flicking slow their tufted tails; and every one

of these fine days he ached a little from sheer love of it all, feeling perhaps, deep down, that he had not very

much longer to enjoy it. The thought that some day perhaps not ten years hence, perhaps not fiveall this

world would be taken away from him, before he had exhausted his powers of loving it, seemed to him in the

nature of an injustice brooding over his horizon. If anything came after this life, it wouldn't be what he

wanted; not Robin Hill, and flowers and birds and pretty facestoo few, even now, of those about him! With

the years his dislike of humbug had increased; the orthodoxy he had worn in the 'sixties, as he had worn

sidewhiskers out of sheer exuberance, had long dropped off, leaving him reverent before three things

alonebeauty, upright conduct, and the sense of property; and the greatest of these now was beauty. He had

always had wide interests, and, indeed could still read The Tines, but he was liable at any moment to put it

down if he heard a blackbird sing. Upright conduct, property somehow, they were tiring; the blackbirds

and the sunsets never tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he could not get enough of them.

Staring into the stilly radiance of the early evening and at the little gold and white flowers on the lawn, a

thought came to him: This weather was like the music of 'Orfeo,' which he had recently heard at Covent

Garden. A beautiful opera, not like Meyerbeer, nor even quite Mozart, but, in its way, perhaps even more

lovely; something classical and of the Golden Age about it, chaste and mellow, and the Ravogli 'almost

worthy of the old days'highest praise he could bestow. The yearning of Orpheus for the beauty he was

losing, for his love going down to Hades, as in life love and beauty did gothe yearning which sang and

throbbed through the golden music, stirred also in the lingering beauty of the world that evening. And with

the tip of his corksoled, elasticsided boot he involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog Balthasar, causing

the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade

him of the fact. When he had finished, he rubbed the place he had been scratching against his master's calf,

and settled down again with his chin over the instep of the disturbing boot. And into old Jolyon's mind came

a sudden recollectiona face he had seen at that opera three weeks agoIrene, the wife of his precious

nephew Soames, that man of property! Though he had not met her since the day of the 'At Home' in his old

house at Stanhope Gate, which celebrated his granddaughter June's illstarred engagement to young

Bosinney, he had remembered her at once, for he had always admired hera very pretty creature. After the

death of young Bosinney, whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that she had left

Soames at once. Goodness only knew what she had been doing since. That sight of her facea side

viewin the row in front, had been literally the only reminder these three years that she was still alive. No

one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo had told him something oncesomething which had upset him

completely. The boy had got it from George Forsyte, he believed, who had seen Bosinney in the fog the day

he was run oversomething which explained the young fellow's distressan act of Soames towards his

wifea shocking act. Jo had seen her, too, that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, and

his description had always lingered in old Jolyon's mind'wild and lost' he had called her. And next day

June had gone there bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her

mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished. A tragic business altogether! One thing was

certainSoames had never been able to lay hands on her again. And he was living at Brighton, and

journeying up and downa fitting fate, the man of property! For when he once took a dislike to anyoneas

he had to his nephewold Jolyon never got over it. He remembered still the sense of relief with which he

had heard the news of Irene's disappearance. It had been shocking to think of her a prisoner in that house to

which she must have wandered back, when Jo saw her, wandered back for a momentlike a wounded

animal to its hole after seeing that news, 'Tragic death of an Architect,' in the street. Her face had struck him

very much the other nightmore beautiful than he had remem bered, but like a mask, with something

going on beneath it. A young woman stilltwentyeight perhaps. Ah, well! Very likely she had another

lover by now. But at this subversive thoughtfor married women should never love: once, even, had been

too muchhis instep rose, and with it the dog Balthasar's head. The sagacious animal stood up and looked

into old Jolyon's face. 'Walk?' he seemed to say; and old Jolyon answered: "Come on, old chap!"

Slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations of buttercups and daisies, and entered the

fernery. This feature, where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below the level of the lawn

so that it might come up again on the level of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity, so

important in horticulture. Its rocks and earth were beloved of the dog Balthasar, who sometimes found a mole

there. Old Jolyon made a point of passing through it because, though it was not beautiful, he intended that it

should be, some day, and he would think: 'I must get Varr to come down and look at it; he's better than

Beech.' For plants, like houses and human complaints, required the best expert consideration. It was inhabited

by snails, and if accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point to one and tell them the story of the little

boy who said: 'Have plummers got leggers, Mother? 'No, sonny.' 'Then darned if I haven't been and

swallowed a snileybob.' And when they skipped and clutched his hand, thinking of the snileybob going down

the little boy's 'red lane,' his, eyes would twinkle. Emerging from the fernery, he opened the wicket gate,

which just there led into the first field, a large and parklike area, out of which, within brick walls, the

vegetable garden had been carved. Old Jolyon avoided this, which did not suit his mood, and made down the

hill towards the pond. Balthasar, who knew a waterrat or two, gambolled in front, at the gait which marks an

oldish dog who takes the same walk every day. Arrived at the edge, old Jolyon stood, noting another

waterlily opened since yesterday; he would show it to Holly tomorrow, when 'his little sweet' had got over

the upset which had followed on her eating a tomato at lunchher little arrangements were very delicate.

Now that Jolly had gone to schoolhis first termHolly was with him nearly all day long, and he missed

her badly. He felt that pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at his left side. He looked

back up the hill. Really, poor young Bosinney had made an uncommonly good job of the house; he would

have done very well for himself if he had lived! And where was he now? Perhaps, still haunting this, the site

of his last work, of his tragic love affair. Or was Philip Bosinney's spirit diffused in the general? Who could

say? That dog was getting his legs muddy! And he moved towards the coppice. There had been the most

delightful lot of bluebells, andhe knew where some still lingered like little patches of sky fallen irk

between the trees, away out of the sun. He passed the cowhouses and the henhouses there installed, and

pursued a path into the thick of the saplings, making for one of the bluebell plots. Balthasar, preceding him

once more, uttered a low growl. Old Jolyon stirred him with his foot, but the dog remained motionless, just

where there was no room to pass, and the hair rose slowly along the centre of his woolly back. Whether from

the growl and the look of the dog's stivered hair, or from the sensation which a man feels in a wood, old

Jolyon also felt something move along his spine. And then the path turned, and there was an old mossy log,

and on it a woman sitting. Her face was turned away, and he had just time to think: 'She's trespassingI

must have a board put up!' before she turned. Powers above! The face he had seen at the operathe very

woman he had just been thinking of! In that confused moment he saw things blurred, as if a spiritqueer

effectthe slant of sunlight perhaps on her violetgrey frock! And then she rose and stood smiling, her head

a little to one side. Old Jolyon thought: 'How pretty she is!' She did not speak, neither did he; and he realized

why with a certain admiration. She was here no doubt because of some memory, and did not mean to try and

"Don't let that dog touch your frock," he said; "he's got wet feet. Come here, you!"

But the dog Balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her hand down and stroked his head. Old Jolyon

He felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: 'Do you think one could miss seeing you?'

"They're all in Spain," he remarked abruptly. "I'm alone; I drove up for the opera. The Ravogli's good. Have

In a situation so charged with mystery and something very like emotion he moved instinctively towards that

bit of property, and she moved beside him. Her figure swayed faintly, like the best kind of French figures; her

dress, too, was a sort of French grey. He noticed two or three silver threads in her ambercoloured hair,

strange hair with those dark eyes of hers, and that creamypale face. A sudden sidelong look from the velvety

brown eyes disturbed him. It seemed to come from deep and far, from another world almost, or at all events

He did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear anything; but the perverse word came out:

She nodded. It was a relief to know that. And it came into his mind that, but for a twist of fate, she would

"All Alderneys," he muttered; "they give the best milk. This one's a pretty creature. Woa, Myrtle!"

The fawncoloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as Irene's own, was standing absolutely still, not having

long been milked. She looked round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, cynical eyes, and from

her grey lips a little dribble of saliva threaded its way towards the straw. The scent of hay and vanilla and

"You must come up and have some dinner with me. I'll send you home in the carriage."

He perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, with her memories. But he wanted her

company; a pretty face, a charming figure, beauty! He had been alone all the afternoon. Perhaps his eyes were

"Capital! Let's go up, then!" And, preceded by the dog Balthasar, they ascended through the field. The sun

was almost level in their faces now, and he could see, not only those silver threads, but little lines, just deep

enough to stamp her beauty with a coinlike finenessthe special look of life unshared with others. "I'll take

"Work!" said old Jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, and smoothing its black petticoat. "Nothing

"Trying to help women who've come to grief." Old Jolyon did not quite understand. "To grief?" he repeated;

then realised with a shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he had used that

expression. Assisting the Magdalenes of London! What a weird and terrifying interest! And, curiosity

"Not much. I've no money to spare. I can only give sympathy and food sometimes."

Involuntarily old Jolyon's hand sought his purse. He said hastily: "How d'you get hold of them?"

Old Jolyon straightened the doll. "Beauty!" he ejaculated: "Ha! Yes! A sad business!" and he moved towards

the house. Through a French window, under sunblinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her into the room

where he was wont to study 'The Times' and the sheets of an agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of

mangold wurzels, and the like, which provided Holly with material for her paint brush.

"Dinner's in half an hour. You'd like to wash your hands! I'll take you to June's room."

He saw her looking round eagerly; what changes since she had last visited this house with her husband, or her

lover, or both perhaps he did not know, could not say! All that was dark, and he wished to leave it so. But

"My boy Jo's a painter, you know. He's got a lot of taste. It isn't mine, of course, but I've let him have his

She was standing very still, her eyes roaming through the hall and music room, as it now wasall thrown

into one, under the great skylight. Old Jolyon had an odd impression of her. Was she trying to conjure

somebody from the shades of that space where the colouring was all pearlgrey and silver? He would have

had gold himself; more lively and solid. But Jo had French tastes, and it had come out shadowy like that, with

an effect as of the fume of cigarettes the chap was always smoking, broken here and there by a little blaze of

blue or crimson colour. It was not his dream! Mentally he had hung this space with those goldframed

masterpieces of still and stiller life which he had bought in days when quantity was precious. And now where

were they? Sold for a song! That something which made him, alone among Forsytes, move with the times

had warned him against the struggle to retain them. But in his study he still had 'Dutch Fishing Boats at

"These are the bathrooms," he said, "and other arrangements. I've had them tiled. The nurseries are along

there. And this is Jo's and his wife's. They all communicate. But you remember, I expect."

Irene nodded. They passed on, up the gallery and entered a large room with a small bed, and several

"This is mine," he said. The walls were covered with the photographs of children and watercolour sketches,

"These are Jo's. The view's firstrate. You can see the Grand Stand at Epsom in clear weather."

The sun was down now, behind the house, and over the 'prospect' a luminous haze had settled, emanation of

the long and prosperous day. Few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened, away to a loom of

"The country's changing," he said abruptly, "but there it'll be when we're all gone. Look at those

thrushesthe birds are sweet here in the mornings. I'm glad to have washed my hands of London."

Her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its mournful look. 'Wish I could make her look

happy!' he thought. 'A pretty face, but sad!' And taking up his can of hot water he went out into the gallery.

"This is June's room," he said, opening the next door and putting the can down; "I think you'll find

everything." And closing the door behind her he went back to his own room. Brushing his hair with his great

ebony brushes, and dabbing his forehead with eau de Cologne, he mused. She had come so strangelya sort

of visit ation; mysterious, even romantic, as if his desire for company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by

whatever it was which fulfilled that sort of thing. And before the mirror he straightened his still upright

figure, passed the brushes over his great white moustache, touched up his eyebrows with eau de Cologne, and

"I forgot to let them know that I have a lady to dinner with me. Let cook do something extra, and tell Beacon

to have the landau and pair at halfpast ten to drive her back to Town tonight. Is Miss Holly asleep?"

The maid thought not. And old Jolyon, passing down the gallery, stole on tiptoe towards the nursery, and

opened the door whose hinges he kept specially oiled that he might slip in and out in the evenings without

But Holly was asleep, and lay like a miniature Madonna, of that type which the old painters could not tell

from Venus, when they had completed her. Her long dark lashes clung to her cheeks; on her face was perfect

peaceher little arrangements were evidently all right again. And old Jolyon, in the twilight of the room,

stood adoring her! It was so charming, solemn, and lovingthat little face. He had more than his share of the

blessed capacity of living again in the young. They were to him his future lifeall of a future life that his

fundamental pagan sanity perhaps admitted. There she was with everything before her, and his bloodsome

of itin her tiny veins. There she was, his little companion, to be made as happy as ever he could make her,

so that she knew nothing but love. His heart swelled, and he went out, stilling the sound of his patentleather

boots. In the corridor an eccentric notion attacked him: To think that children should come to that which Irene

had told him she was helping! Women who were all, once, little things like this one sleeping there! 'I must

give her a cheque!' he mused; 'Can't bear to think of them!' They had never borne reflecting on, those poor

outcasts; wounding too deeply the core of true refinement hidden under layers of conformity to the sense of

propertywounding too grievously the deepest thing in hima love of beauty which could give him, even

now, a flutter of the heart, thinking of his evening in the society of a pretty woman. And he went downstairs,

through the swinging doors, to the back regions. There, in the winecellar, was a hock worth at least two

pounds a bottle, a Steinberg Cabinet, better than any Johannisberg that ever went down throat; a wine of

perfect bouquet, sweet as a nectarinenectar indeed! He got a bottle out, handling it like a baby, and holding

it level to the light, to look. Enshrined in its coat of dust, that mellow coloured, slendernecked bottle gave

him deep pleasure. Three years to settle down again since the move from Townought to be in prime

condition! Thirtyfive years ago he had bought itthank God he had kept his palate, and earned the right to

drink it. She would appreciate this; not a spice of acidity in a dozen. He wiped the bottle, drew the cork with

his own hands, put his nose down, inhaled its perfume, and went back to the music room.

Irene was standing by the piano; she had taken off her hat and a lace scarf she had been wearing, so that her

goldcoloured hair was visible, and the pallor of her neck. In her grey frock she made a pretty picture for old

He gave her his arm, and solemnly they went. The room, which had been designed to enable twentyfour

people to dine in comfort, held now but a little round table. In his present solitude the big diningtable

oppressed old Jolyon; he had caused it to be removed till his son came back. Here in the company of two

really good copies of Raphael Madonnas he was wont to dine alone. It was the only disconsolate hour of his

day, this summer weather. He had never been a large eater, like that great chap Swithin, or Sylvanus

Heythorp, or Anthony Thornworthy, those cronies of past times; and to dine alone, overlooked by the

Madonnas, was to him but a sorrowful occupation, which he got through quickly, that he might come to the

more spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar. But this evening was a different matter! His eyes twinkled at

her across the little table and he spoke of Italy and Switzerland, telling her stories of his travels there, and

other experiences which he could no longer recount to his son and granddaughter because they knew them.

This fresh audience was precious to him; he had never become one of those old men who ramble round and

round the fields of reminiscence. Himself quickly fatigued by the insensitive, he instinctively avoided

fatiguing others, and his natural flirtatiousness towards beauty guarded him specially in his relations with a

woman. He would have liked to draw her out, but though she murmured and smiled and seemed to be

enjoying what he told her, he remained conscious of that mysterious remoteness which constituted half her

fascination. He could not bear women who threw their shoulders and eyes at you, and chattered away; or

hard mouthed women who laid down the law and knew more than you did. There was only one quality in a

woman that appealed to himcharm; and the quieter it was, the more he liked it. And this one had charm,

shadowy as afternoon sunlight on those Italian hills and valleys he had loved. The feeling, too, that she was,

as it were, apart, cloistered, made her seem nearer to himself, a strangely desirable companion. When a man

is very old and quite out of the running, he loves to feel secure from the rivalries of youth, for he would still

be first in the heart of beauty. And he drank his hock, and watched her lips, and felt nearly young. But the

dog Balthasar lay watching her lips too, and despising in his heart the interruptions of their talk, and the

tilting of those greenish glasses full of a golden fluid which was distasteful to him.

The light was just failing when they went back into the musicroom. And, cigar in mouth, old Jolyon said:

By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the texture of men's souls. Old Jolyon

could not beara strong cigar or Wagner's music. He loved Beethoven and Mozart, Handel and Gluck, and

Schumann, and, for some occult reason, the operas of Meyerbeer; but of late years he had been seduced by

Chopin, just as in painting he had succumbed to Botticelli. In yielding to these tastes he had been conscious

of divergence from the standard of the Golden Age. Their poetry was not that of Milton and Byron and

Tennyson; of Raphael and Titian; Mozart and Beethoven. It was, as it were, behind a veil; their poetry hit no

one in the face, but slipped its fingers under the ribs and turned and twisted, and melted up the heart. And,

never certain that this was healthy, he did not care a rap so long as he could see the pictures of the one or hear

Irene sat down at the piano under the electric lamp festooned with pearlgrey, and old Jolyon, in an armchair,

whence he could see her, crossed his legs and drew slowly at his cigar. She sat a few moments with her hands

on the keys, evidently searching her mind for what to give him. Then she began and within old Jolyon there

arose a sorrowful pleasure, not quite like anything else in the world. He fell slowly into a trance, interrupted

only by the movements of taking the cigar out of his mouth at long intervals, and replacing it. She was there,

and the hock within him, and the scent of tobacco; but there, too, was a world of sunshine lingering into

moonlight, and pools with storks upon them, and bluish trees above, glowing with blurs of winered roses,

and fields of lavender where milkwhite cows were grazing, and a woman all shadowy, with dark eyes and a

white neck, smiled, holding out her arms; and through air which was like music a star dropped and was

caught on a cow's horn. He opened his eyes. Beautiful piece; she played well the touch of an angel! And he

closed them again. He felt mirac ulously sad and happy, as one does, standing under a limetree in full

honey flower. Not live one's own life again, but just stand there and bask in the smile of a woman's eyes, and

enjoy the bouquet! And he jerked his hand; the dog Balthasar had reached up and licked it.

She began to play again. This time the resemblance between her and 'Chopin' struck him. The swaying he had

noticed in her walk was in her playing too, and the Nocturne she had chosen and the soft darkness of her

eyes, the light on her hair, as of moonlight from a golden moon. Seductive, yes; but nothing of Delilah in her

or in that music. A long blue spiral from his cigar ascended and dispersed. 'So we go out!' he thought. 'No

"Would you like some Gluck? He used to write his music in a sunlit garden, with a bottle of Rhine wine

"Ah!; yes. Let's have 'Orfeo."' Round about him now were fields of gold and silver flowers, white forms

swaying in the sunlight, bright birds flying to and fro. All was summer. Lingering waves of sweetness and

regret flooded his soul. Some cigar ash dropped, and taking out a silk handkerchief to brush it off, he inhaled

a mingled scent as of snuff and eau de Cologne. 'Ah!' he thought, 'Indian summerthat's all!' and he said:

She did not answer; did not move. He was conscious of something some strange upset. Suddenly he saw

her rise and turn away, and a pang of remorse shot through him. What a clumsy chap! Like Orpheus, she of

courseshe too was looking for her lost one in the hall of memory! And disturbed to the heart, he got up

from his chair. She had gone to the great window at the far end. Gingerly he followed. Her hands were folded

over her breast; he could just see her cheek, very white. And, quite emotionalized, he said:

"There, there, my love!" The words had escaped him mechanically, for they were those he used to Holly

when she had a pain, but their effect was instantaneously distressing. She raised her arms, covered her face

Old Jolyon stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age. The passionate shame she seemed feeling at her

abandonment, so unlike the control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had never before broken

"There, therethere, there!" he murmured, and putting his hand out reverently, touched her. She turned, and

leaned the arms which covered her face against him. Old Jolyon stood very still, keeping one thin hand on her

The window was still open, the curtains had not been drawn, the last of daylight from without mingled with

faint intrusion from the lamp within; there was a scent of newmown grass. With the wisdom of a long life

old Jolyon did not speak. Even grief sobbed itself out in time; only Time was good for sorrowTime who

saw the passing of each mood, each emotion in turn; Time the layertorest. There came into his mind the

words: 'As panteth the hart after cooling streams'but they were of no use to him. Then, conscious of a scent

of violets, he knew she was drying her eyes. He put his chin forward, pressed his moustache against her

forehead, and felt her shake with a quivering of her whole body, as of a tree which shakes itself free of

raindrops. She put his hand to her lips, as if saying: "All over now! Forgive me!"

The kiss filled him with a strange comfort; he led her back to where she had been so upset. And the dog

Balthasar, following, laid the bone of one of the cutlets they had eaten at their feet.

Anxious to obliterate the memory of that emotion, he could think of nothing better than china; and moving

with her slowly from cabinet to cabinet, he kept taking up bits of Dresden and Lowestoft and Chelsea, turning

them round and round with his thin, veined hands, whose skin, faintly freckled, had such an aged look.

"I bought this at Jobson's," he would say; "cost me thirty pounds. It's very old. That dog leaves his bones all

over the place. This old 'shipbowl' I picked up at the sale when that precious rip, the Marquis, came to grief.

But you don't remember. Here's a nice piece of Chelsea. Now, what would you say this was?" And he was

comforted, feeling that, with her taste, she was taking a real interest in these things; for, after all, nothing

"You must come again; you must come to lunch, then I can show you these by daylight, and my little

For Balthasar, feeling that she was about to leave, was rubbing his side against her leg. Going out under the

"He'll get you up in an hour and a quarter. Take this for your protegees," and he slipped a cheque for fifty

pounds into her hand. He saw her brightened eyes, and heard her murmur: "Oh Uncle Jolyon!" and a real

throb of pleasure went through him. That meant one or two poor creatures helped a little, and it meant that

she would come again. He put his hand in at the window and grasped hers once more. The carriage rolled

away. He stood looking at the moon and the shadows of the trees, and thought: 'A sweet night! She ...!'

Two days of rain, and summer set in bland and sunny. Old Jolyon walked and talked with Holly. At first he

felt taller and full of a new vigour; then he felt restless. Almost every afternoon they would enter the coppice,

and walk as far as the log. 'Well, she's not there!' he would think, 'of course not!' And he would feel a little

shorter, and drag his feet walking up the hill home, with his hand clapped to his left side. Now and then the

thought would move in him: 'Did she comeor did I dream it?' and he would stare at space, while the dog

Balthasar stared at him. Of course she would not come again! He opened the letters from Spain with less

excitement. They were not returning till July; he felt, oddly, that he could bear it. Every day at dinner he

screwed up his eyes and looked at where she had sat. She was not there, so he unscrewed his eyes again.

On the seventh afternoon he thought: 'I must go up and get some boots.' He ordered Beacon, and set out.

Passing from Putney towards Hyde Park he reflected: 'I might as well go to Chelsea and see her.' And he

called out: "Just drive me to where you took that lady the other night." The coachman turned his broad red

The carriage stopped before a small threestoried block of flats, standing a little back from the river. With a

practised eye old Jolyon saw that they were cheap. 'I should think about sixty pound a year,' he mused; and

entering, he looked at the nameboard. The name 'Forsyte' was not on it, but against 'First Floor, Flat C' were

the words: 'Mrs. Irene Heron.' Ah! She had taken her maiden name again! And somehow this pleased him. He

went upstairs slowly, feeling his side a little. He stood a moment, before ringing, to lose the feeling of drag

and fluttering there. She would not be in! And then Boots! The thought was black. What did he want with

Old Jolyon followed a very little maidnot more than sixteen one would sayinto a very small

drawingroom where the sunblinds were drawn. It held a cottage piano and little else save a vague

fragrance and good taste. 'He stood in the middle, with his top hat in his hand, and thought: 'I expect she's

very badly off!' There was a mirror above the fireplace, and he saw himself reflected. An oldlooking chap!

He heard a rustle, and turned round. She was so close that his moustache almost brushed her forehead, just

"I was driving up," he said. "Thought I'd look in on you, and ask you how you got up the other night."

And, seeing her smile, he felt suddenly relieved. She was really glad to see him, perhaps.

But while she was gone to put her hat on, he frowned. The Park! James and Emily! Mrs. Nicholas, or some

other member of his precious family would be there very likely, prancing up and down. And they would go

and wag their tongues about having seen him with her, afterwards. Better not! He did not wish to revive the

echoes of the past on Forsyte 'Change.' He removed a white hair from the lapel of his closelybuttonedup

frock coat, and passed his hand over his cheeks, moustache, and square chin. It felt very hollow there under

the cheekbones. He had not been eating much latelyhe had better get that little whippersnapper who

attended Holly to give him a tonic. But she had come back and when they were in the carriage, he said:

"Suppose we go and sit in Kensington Gardens instead?" and added with a twinkle: "No prancing up and

Leaving the carriage, they entered those select precincts, and strolled towards the water.

"I? I forgave you as soon as I saw how the land really lay." And perhaps he had; his instinct had always been

She drew a deep breath. "I never regrettedI couldn't. Did you ever love very deeply, Uncle Jolyon?"

At that strange question old Jolyon stared before him. Had he? He did not seem to remember that he ever had.

But he did not like to say this to the young woman whose hand was touching his arm, whose life was

suspended, as it were, by memory of a tragic love. And he thought: 'If I had met you when I was young II

might have made a fool of myself, perhaps.' And a longing to escape in generalities beset him.

"Love's a queer thing," he said, "fatal thing often. It was the Greekswasn't it?made love into a goddess;

Phil! The word jarred him, for suddenlywith his power to see all round a thing, he perceived why she was

putting up with him like this. She wanted to talk about her lover! Well! If it was any pleasure to her! And he

"Yes. He loved balance and symmetry; he loved the wholehearted way the Greeks gave themselves to art."

Balance! The chap had no balance at all, if he remembered; as for symmetrycleanbuilt enough he was, no

Old Jolyon looked round at her. Was she chaffing him? No, her eyes were soft as velvet. Was she flattering

"Phil thought so. He used to say: 'But I can never tell him that I admire him."'

Ah! There it was again. Her dead lover; her desire to talk of him! And he pressed her arm, half resentful of

those memories, half grateful, as if he recognised what a link they were between herself and him.

"He was a very talented young fellow," he murmured. "It's hot; I feel the heat nowadays. Let's sit down."

They took two chairs beneath a chestnut tree whose broad leaves covered them from the peaceful glory of the

afternoon. A pleasure to sit there and watch her, and feel that she liked to be with him. And the wish to

"I expect he showed you a side of him I never saw. He'd be at his best with you. His ideas of art were a little

"Yes: but he used to say you had a real sense of beauty." Old Jolyon thought: 'The devil he did!' but answered

with a twinkle: "Well, I have, or I shouldn't be sitting here with you." She was fascinating when she smiled

"He thought you had one of those hearts that never grow old. Phil had real insight."

He was not taken in by this flattery spoken out of the past, out of a longing to talk of her dead lovernot a

bit; and yet it was precious to hear, because she pleased his eyes and heart which quite true!had never

grown old. Was that becauseunlike her and her dead lover, he had never loved to desperation, had always

kept his balance, his sense of symmetry. Well! It had left him power, at eightyfour, to admire beauty. And

he thought, 'If I were a painter or a sculptor! But I'm an old chap. Make hay while the sun shines.'

A couple with arms entwined crossed on the grass before them, at the edge of the shadow from their tree. The

sunlight fell cruelly on their pale, squashed, unkempt young faces. "We're an ugly lot!" said old Jolyon

With that glow in her pale face, her breast heaving, her eyes so large and dark and soft, she looked like Venus

come to life! But this extravagance brought instant reaction, and, twinkling, he said: "Well, if it had limits,

Then, removing his top hat, he brushed it round with a cuff. The great clumsy thing heated his forehead; in

these days he often got a rush of blood to the headhis circulation was not what it had been.

"Was it your son? I heard a voice in the hall; I thought for a second it wasPhil."

Old Jolyon saw her lips tremble. She put her hand over them, took it away again, and went on calmly: "That

night I went to the Embankment; a woman caught me by the dress. She told me about herself. When one

She nodded, and horror stirred within old Jolyon, the horror of one who has never known a struggle with

"I didn't care whether I lived or died. When you're like that, Fate ceases to want to kill you. She took care of

me three days she never left me. I had no money. That's why I do what I can for them, now."

But old Jolyon was thinking: 'No money!' What fate could compare with that? Every other was involved in it.

"I wish you had come to me," he said. "Why didn't you?" But Irene did not answer.

"Because my name was Forsyte, I suppose? Or was it June who kept you away? How are you getting on

now?" His eyes involuntarily swept her body. Perhaps even now she was! And yet she wasn't thinnot

"Oh! with my fifty pounds a year, I make just enough." The answer did not reassure him; he had lost

confidence. And that fellow Soames! But his sense of justice stifled condemnation. No, she would certainly

have died rather than take another penny from him. Soft as she looked, there must be strength in her

somewhere strength and fidelity. But what business had young Bosinney to have got run over and left her

"Well, you must come to me now," he said, "for anything you want, or I shall be quite cut up." And putting

on his hat, he rose. "Let's go and get some tea. I told that lazy chap to put the horses up for an hour, and come

He enjoyed that stroll to the Kensington end of the gardensthe sound of her voice, the glancing of her eyes,

the subtle beauty of a charming form moving beside him. He enjoyed their tea at Ruffel's in the High Street,

and came out thence with a great box of chocolates swung on his little finger. He enjoyed the drive back to

Chelsea in a hansom, smoking his cigar. She had promised to come down next Sunday and play to him again,

and already in thought he was plucking carnations and early roses for her to carry back to town. It was a

pleasure to give her a little pleasure, if it WERE pleasure from an old chap like him! The carriage was already

there when they arrived. Just like that fellow, who was always late when he was wanted! Old Jolyon went in

for a minute to say goodbye. The little dark hall of the fiat was impregnated with a disagreeable odour of

patchouli, and on a bench against the wallits only furniturehe saw a figure sitting. He heard Irene say

softly: "Just one minute." In the little drawingroom when the door was shut, he asked gravely: "One of your

He stood, staring, and stroking that chin whose strength had frightened so many in its time. The idea of her

thus actually in contact with this outcast, grieved and frightened him. What could she do for them? Nothing.

Only soil and make trouble for herself, perhaps. And he said: "Take care, my dear! The world puts the worst

"Goodbye," he said again; "take care of yourself." And he went out, not looking towards the figure on the

bench. He drove home by way of Hammersmith; that he might stop at a place he knew of and tell them to

send her in two dozen of their best Burgundy. She must want pickingup sometimes! Only in Richmond Park

did he remember that he had gone up to order himself some boots, and was surprised that he could have had

The little spirits of the past which throng an old man's days had never pushed their faces up to his so seldom

as in the seventy hours elapsing before Sunday came. The spirit of the future, with the charm of the unknown,

put up her lips instead. Old Jolyon was not restless now, and paid no visits to the log, because she was

coming to lunch. There is wonderful finality about a meal; it removes a world of doubts, for no one misses

meals except for reasons beyond control. He played many games with Holly on the lawn, pitching them up to

her who was batting so as to be ready to bowl to Jolly in the holidays. For she was not a Forsyte, but Jolly

wasand Forsytes always bat, until they have resigned and reached the age of eightyfive. The dog

Balthasar, in attendance, lay on the ball as often as he could, and the pageboy fielded, till his face was like

the harvest moon. And because the time was getting shorter, each day was longer and more golden than the

last. On Friday night he took a liver pill, his side hurt him rather, and though it was not the liver side, there is

no remedy like that. Anyone telling him that he had found a new excitement in life and that excitement was

not good for him, would have been met by one of those steady and rather defiant looks of his deepset

irongrey eyes, which seemed to say: 'I know my own business best.' He always had and always would.

On Sunday morning, when Holly had gone with her governess to church, he visited the strawberry beds.

There, accompanied by the dog Balthasar, he examined the plants narrowly and succeeded in finding at least

two dozen berries which were really ripe. Stooping was not good for him, and he became very dizzy and red

in the forehead. Having placed the strawberries in a dish on the diningtable, he washed his hands and bathed

his forehead with eau de Cologne. There, before the mirror, it occurred to him that he was thinner. What a

'threadpaper' he had been when he was young! It was nice to be slimhe could not bear a fat chap; and yet

perhaps his cheeks were too thin! She was to arrive by train at halfpast twelve and walk up, entering from

the road past Drage's farm at the far end of the coppice. And, having looked into June's room to see that there

was hot water ready, he set forth to meet her, leisurely, for his heart was beating. The air smelled sweet, larks

sang, and the Grand Stand at Epsom was visible. A perfect day! On just such a one, no doubt, six years ago,

Soames had brought young Bosinney down with him to look at the site before they began to build. It was

Bosinney who had pitched on the exact spot for the houseas June had often told him. In these days he was

thinking much about that young fellow, as if his spirit were really haunting the field of his last work, on the

chance of seeingher. Bosinneythe one man who had possessed her heart, to whom she had given her

whole self with rapture! At his age one could not, of course, imagine such things, but there stirred in him a

queer vague achingas it were the ghost of an impersonal jealousy; and a feeling, too, more generous, of

pity for that love so early lost. All over in a few poor months! Well, well! He looked at his watch before

entering the coppiceonly a quarter past, twentyfive minutes to wait! And then, turning the corner of the

path, he saw her exactly where he had seen her the first time, on the log; and realised that she must have

come by the earlier train to sit there alone for a couple of hours at least. Two hours of her society missed!

What memory could make that log so dear to her? His face showed what he was thinking, for she said at

"Yes, yes; there it is for you whenever you like. You're looking a little Londony; you're giving too many

That she should have to give lessons worried him. Lessons to a parcel of young girls thumping out scales

"They had better be, by George!" He took her armhis side always hurt him a little going uphilland said:

"Did you ever see anything like those buttercups? They came like that in a night."

Her eyes seemed really to fly over the field, like bees after the flowers and the honey. "I wanted you to see

themwouldn't let them turn the cows in yet." Then, remembering that she had come to talk about Bosinney,

"I expect be wouldn't have let me put that therehad no notion of time, if I remember."

But, pressing his arm to her, she talked of flowers instead, and he knew it was done that he might not feel she

"The best flower I can show you," he said, with a sort of triumph, "is my little sweet. She'll be back from

Church directly. There's something about her which reminds me a little of you," and it did not seem to him

peculiar that he had put it thus, instead of saying: "There's something about you which reminds me a little of

Holly, followed closely by her elderly French governess, whose digestion had been ruined twentytwo years

ago in the siege of Strasbourg, came rushing towards them from under the oak tree. She stopped about a

dozen yards away, to pat Balthasar and pretend that this was all she had in her mind. Old Jolyon who knew

Holly raised herself and looked up. He watched the two of them with a twinkle, Irene smiling, Holly

beginning with grave inquiry, passing into a shy smile too, and then to something deeper. She had a sense of

beauty, that childknew what was what! He enjoyed the sight of the kiss between them.

For, now that he had not much more time before him, the only part of the service connected with this world

absorbed what interest in church remained to him. Mam'zelle Beauce stretched out a spidery hand clad in a

black kid gloveshe had been in the best families and the rather sad eyes of her lean yellowish face

seemed to ask: "Are you wellbrrred?" Whenever Holly or Jolly did anything unpleasing to hera not

uncommon occurrence he would say to them: "The little Tayleurs never did thatthey were such

wellbrrred little children." Jolly hated the little Tayleurs; Holly wondered dreadfully how it was she fell so

short of them. 'A thin rum little soul,' old Jolyon thought herMam'zelle Beauce.

Luncheon was a successful meal, the mushrooms which he himself had picked in the mushroom house, his

chosen strawberries, and another bottle of the Steinberg cabinet filled him with a certain aromatic spirituality,

After lunch they sat under the oak tree drinking Turkish coffee. It was no matter of grief to him when

Mademoiselle Beauce withdrew to write her Sunday letter to her sister, whose future had been endangered in

the past by swallowing a pinan event held up daily in warning to the children to eat slowly and digest what

they had eaten. At the foot of the bank, on a carriage rug, Holly and the dog Balthasar teased and loved each

other, and in the shade old Jolyon with his legs crossed and his cigar luxuriously savoured, gazed at Irene

sitting in the swing. A light, vaguely swaying, grey figure with a fleck of sunlight here and there upon it, lips

just opened, eyes dark and soft under lids a little drooped. She looked content; surely it did her good to come

and see him! The selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on him, for he could still feel pleasure in the

pleasure of others, realising that what he wanted, though much, was not quite all that mattered.

"It's quiet here," he said; "you mustn't come down if you find it dull. But it's a pleasure to see you. My little

>From her smile he knew that she was not beyond liking to be appreciated, and this reassured him. "That's

not humbug," he said. "I never told a woman I admired her when I didn't. In fact I don't know when I've told a

woman I admired her, except my wife in the old days; and wives are funny." He was silent, but resumed

"She used to expect me to say it more often than I felt it, and there we were." Her face looked mysteriously

troubled, and, afraid that he had said something painful, he hurried on: "When my little sweet marries, I hope

she'll find someone who knows what women feel. I shan't be here to see it, but there's too much

topsyturvydom in marriage; I don't want her to pitch up against that." And, aware that he had made bad

A silence followed. Of what was she thinking, this pretty creature whose life was spoiled; who had done with

love, and yet was made for love? Some day when he was gone, perhaps, she would find another matenot

so disorderly as that young fellow who had got himself run over. Ah! but her husband?

She shook her head. Her face had closed up suddenly. For all her softness there was something irreconcilable

about her. And a glimpse of light on the inexorable nature of sex antipathies strayed into a brain which,

belonging to early Victorian civil isationso much older than this of his old agehad never thought about

"That's a comfort," he said. "You can see the Grand Stand today. Shall we take a turn round?"

Through the flower and fruit garden, against whose high outer walls peach trees and nectarines were trained

to the sun, through the stables, the vinery, the mushroom house, the asparagus beds, the rosery, the

summerhouse, he conducted hereven into the kitchen garden to see the tiny green peas which Holly loved

to scoop out of their pods with her finger, and lick up from the palm of her little brown hand. Many delightful

things he showed her, while Holly and the dog Balthasar danced ahead, or came to them at intervals for

attention. It was one of the happiest afternoons he had ever spent, but it tired him and he was glad to sit down

in the music room and let her give him tea. A special little friend of Holly's had come ina fair child with

short hair like a boy's. And the two sported in the distance, under the stairs, on the stairs, and up in the

gallery. Old Jolyon begged for Chopin. She played studies, mazurkas, waltzes, till the two children, creeping

near, stood at the foot of the piano their dark and golden heads bent forward, listening. Old Jolyon watched.

Shyly, with a false start, they began. Bobbing and circling, earnest, not very adroit, they went past and past

his chair to the strains of that waltz. He watched them and the face of her who was playing turned smiling

But the children came close to old Jolyon, knowing that he would save them, and gazed into a face which was

"Better the day, better the deed, Mam'zelle. It's all my doing. Trot along, chicks, and have your tea."

And, when they were gone, followed by the dog Balthasar, who took every meal, he looked at Irene with a

"Well, there we are! Aren't they sweet? Have you any little ones among your pupils?"

Old Jolyon sighed; he had an insatiable appetite for the very young. "My little sweet," he said, "is devoted to

music; she'll be a musician some day. You wouldn't give me your opinion of her playing, I suppose?"

"You wouldn't like" but he stifled the words "to give her lessons." The idea that she gave lessons was

unpleasant to him; yet it would mean that he would see her regularly. She left the piano and came over to his

But as if answering, Irene shook her head. "You know she couldn't; one doesn't forget."

He talked to her an hour or more, of the children, and a hundred little things, till the carriage came round to

take her home. And when she had gone he went back to his chair, and sat there smoothing his face and chin,

That evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet of paper. He stayed for some minutes without

writing, then rose and stood under the masterpiece 'Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset.' He was not thinking of

that picture, but of his life. He was going to leave her something in his Will; nothing could so have stirred the

stilly deeps of thought and memory. He was going to leave her a portion of his wealth, of his aspirations,

deeds, qualities, work all that had made that wealth; going to leave her, too, a part of all he had missed in

life, by his sane and steady pursuit of wealth. All! What had he missed? 'Dutch Fishing Boats' responded

blankly; he crossed to the French window, and drawing the curtain aside, opened it. A wind had got up, and

one of last year's oak leaves which had somehow survived the gardener's brooms, was dragging itself with a

tiny clicking rustle along the stone terrace in the twilight. Except for that it was very quiet out there, and he

could smell the heliotrope watered not long since. A bat went by. A bird uttered its last 'cheep.' And right

above the oak tree the first star shone. Faust in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years of youth.

Morbid notion! No such bargain was possible, that was real tragedy! No making oneself new again for love

or life or anything. Nothing left to do but enjoy beauty from afar off while you could, and leave it something

in your Will. But how much? And, as if he could not make that calculation looking out into the mild freedom

of the country night, he turned back and went up to the chimneypiece. There were his pet bronzesa

Cleopatra with the asp at her breast; a Socrates; a greyhound playing with her puppy; a strong man reining in

some horses. 'They last!' he thought, and a pang went through his heart. They had a thousand years of life

'How much?' Well! enough at all events to save her getting old before her time, to keep the lines out of her

face as long as possible, and grey from soiling that bright hair. He might live another five years. She would

be well over thirty by then. 'How much?' She had none of his blood in her! In loyalty to the tenor of his life

for forty years and more, ever since he married and founded that mysterious thing, a family, came this

warning thought None of his blood, no right to anything! It was a luxury then, this notion. An

extravagance, a petting of an old man's whim, one of those things done in dotage. His real future was vested

in those who had his blood, in whom he would live on when he was gone. He turned away from the bronzes

and stood looking at the old leather chair in which he had sat and smoked so many hundreds of cigars. And

suddenly he seemed to see her sitting there in her grey dress, fragrant, soft, darkeyed, graceful, looking up at

him. Why! She cared nothing for him, really; all she cared for was that lost lover of hers. But she was there,

whether she would or no, giving him pleasure with her beauty and grace. One had no right to inflict an old

man's company, no right to ask her down to play to him and let him look at herfor no reward! Pleasure

must be paid for in this world. 'How much?' After all, there was plenty; his son and his three grandchildren

would never miss that little lump. He had made it himself, nearly every penny; he could leave it where he

liked, allow himself this little pleasure. He went back to the bureau. 'Well, I'm going to,' he thought, 'let them

'How much?' Ten thousand, twenty thousandhow much? If only with his money he could buy one year,

'DEAR HERRING,Draw me a codicil to this effect: "I leave to my niece Irene Forsyte, born Irene Heron,

by which name she now goes, fifteen thousand pounds free of legacy duty." 'Yours faithfully, 'JOLYON

When he had sealed and stamped the envelope, he went back to the window and drew in a long breath. It was

He woke at halfpast two, an hour which long experience had taught him brings panic intensity to all

awkward thoughts. Experience had also taught him that a further waking at the proper hour of eight showed

the folly of such panic. On this particular morning the thought which gathered rapid momentum was that if he

became ill, at his age not improbable, he would not see her. From this it was but a step to realisation that he

would be cut off, too, when his son and June returned from Spain. How could he justify desire for the

company of one who had stolenearly morning does not mince words June's lover? That lover was dead;

but June was a stubborn little thing; warmhearted, but stubborn as wood, andquite truenot one who

forgot! By the middle of next month they would be back. He had barely five weeks left to enjoy the new

interest which had come into what remained of his life. Darkness showed up to him absurdly clear the nature

of his feeling. Admiration for beautya craving to see that which delighted his eyes.

Preposterous, at his age! And yetwhat other reason was there for asking June to undergo such painful

reminder, and how prevent his son and his son's wife from thinking him very queer? He would be reduced to

sneaking up to London, which tired him; and the least indisposition would cut him off even from that. He lay

with eyes open, setting his jaw against the prospect, and calling himself an old fool, while his heart beat

loudly, and then seemed to stop beating altogether. He had seen the dawn lighting the window chinks, heard

the birds chirp and twitter, and the cocks crow, before he fell asleep again, and awoke tired but sane. Five

weeks before he need bother, at his age an eternity! But that early morning panic had left its mark, had

slightly fevered the will of one who had always had his own way. He would see her as often as he wished!

Why not go up to town and make that codicil at his solicitor's instead of writing about it; she might like to go

to the opera! But, by train, for he would not have that fat chap Beacon grinning behind his back. Servants

were such fools; and, as likely as not, they had known all the past history of Irene and young

Bosinneyservants knew everything, and suspected the rest. He wrote to her that morning:

"MY DEAR IRENE,I have to be up in town tomorrow. If you would like to have a look in at the opera,

But where? It was decades since he had dined anywhere in London save at his Club or at a private house. Ah!

"Let me have a line tomorrow morning to the Piedmont Hotel whether to expect you there at 7 o'clock."

She would understand that he just wanted to give her a little pleasure; for the idea that she should guess he

had this itch to see her was instinctively unpleasant to him; it was not seemly that one so old should go out of

The journey next day, short though it was, and the visit to his lawyer's, tired him. It was hot too, and after

dressing for dinner he lay down on the sofa in his bedroom to rest a little. He must have had a sort of fainting

fit, for he came to himself feeling very queer; and with some difficulty rose and rang the bell. Why! it was

past seven! And there he was and she would be waiting. But suddenly the dizziness came on again, and he

"Yes, come here"; he could not see her clearly, for the cloud in front of his eyes. "I'm not well, I want some

"Don't go. Take this message to my niecea lady waiting in the halla lady in grey. Say Mr. Forsyte is not

wellthe heat. He is very sorry; if he is not down directly, she is not to wait dinner."

When she was gone, he thought feebly: 'Why did I say a lady in greyshe may be in anything. Sal volatile!'

He did not go off again, yet was not conscious of how Irene came to be standing beside him, holding smelling

salts to his nose, and pushing a pillow up behind his head. He heard her say anxiously: "Dear Uncle Jolyon,

what is it?" was dimly conscious of the soft pressure of her lips on his hand; then drew a long breath of

"Ha!" he said, "it's nothing. How did you get here? Go down and dinethe tickets are on the dressingtable.

He felt her cool hand on his forehead, smelled violets, and sat divided between a sort of pleasure and a

"Why! You are in grey!" he said. "Help me up." Once on his feet he gave himself a shake.

"What business had I to go off like that!" And he moved very slowly to the glass. What a cadaverous chap!

"Fiddlesticks! A glass of champagne'll soon set me to rights. I can't have you missing the opera."

But the journey down the corridor was troublesome. What carpets they had in these newfangled places, so

thick that you tripped up in them at every step! In the lift he noticed how concerned she looked, and said with

When the lift stopped he had to hold firmly to the seat to prevent its slipping under him; but after soup and a

glass of champagne he felt much better, and began to enjoy an infirmity which had brought such solicitude

"I should have liked you for a daughter," he said suddenly; and watching the smile in her eyes, went on:

"You mustn't get wrapped up in the past at your time of life; plenty of that when you get to my age. That's a

Ah! A woman who could make herself a pretty frock had not lost her interest in life.

"Make hay while the sun shines," he said; "and drink that up. I want to see some colour in your cheeks. We

mustn't waste life; it doesn't do. There's a new Marguerite tonight; let's hope she won't be fat. And

Mephistoanything more dreadful than a fat chap playing the Devil I can't imagine."

But they did not go to the opera after all, for in getting up from dinner the dizziness came over him again, and

she insisted on his staying quiet and going to bed early. When he parted from her at the door of the hotel,

having paid the cabman to drive her to Chelsea, he sat down again for a moment to enjoy the memory of her

words: "You are such a darling to me, Uncle Jolyon!" Why! Who wouldn't be! He would have liked to stay

up another day and take her to the Zoo, but two days running of him would bore her to death. No, he must

wait till next Sunday; she had promised to come then. They would settle those lessons for Holly, if only for a

month. It would be something. That little Mam'zelle Beauce wouldn't like it, but she would have to lump it.

He drove to Waterloo next morning, struggling with a desire to say: 'Drive me to Chelsea.' But his sense of

proportion was too strong. Besides, he still felt shaky, and did not want to risk another aberration like that of

last night, away from home. Holly, too, was expecting him, and what he had in his bag for her. Not that there

was any cupboard love in his little sweetshe was a bundle of affection. Then, with the rather bitter

cynicism of the old, he wondered for a second whether it was not cupboard love which made Irene put up

with him. No, she was not that sort either. She had, if anything, too little notion of how to butter her bread, no

sense of property, poor thing! Besides, he had not breathed a word about that codicil, nor should

In the victoria which met him at the station Holly was restraining the dog Balthasar, and their caresses made

'jubey' his drive home. All the rest of that fine hot day and most of the next he was content and peaceful,

reposing in the shade, while the long lingering sunshine showered gold on the lawns and the flowers. But on

Thursday evening at his lonely dinner he began to count the hours; sixtyfive till he would go down to meet

her again in the little coppice, and walk up through the fields at her side. He had intended to consult the

doctor about his fainting fit, but the fellow would be sure to insist on quiet, no excitement and all that; and he

did not mean to be tied by the leg, did not want to be told of an infirmityif there were one, could not afford

to hear of it at his time of life, now that this new interest had come. And he carefully avoided making any

mention of it in a letter to his son. It would only bring them back with a run! How far this silence was due to

consideration for their pleasure, how far to regard for his own, he did not pause to consider.

That night in his study he had just finished his cigar and was dozing off, when he heard the rustle of a gown,

and was conscious of a scent of violets. Opening his eyes he saw her, dressed in grey, standing by the

fireplace, holding out her arms. The odd thing was that, though those arms seemed to hold nothing, they were

curved as if round someone's neck, and her own neck was bent back, her lips open, her eyes closed. She

vanished at once, and there were the mantelpiece and his bronzes. But those bronzes and the mantelpiece had

not been there when she was, only the fireplace and the wall! Shaken and troubled, he got up. 'I must take

medicine,' he thought; 'I can't be well.' His heart beat too fast, he had an asthmatic feeling in the chest; and

going to the window, he opened it to get some air. A dog was barking far away, one of the dogs at Gage's

farm no doubt, beyond the coppice. A beautiful still night, but dark. 'I dropped off,' he mused, 'that's it! And

Putting his hand to his side to still the beating of his heart, he stepped out on the terrace. Something soft

scurried by in the dark. "Shoo!" It was that great grey cat. 'Young Bosinney was like a great cat!' he thought.

'It was him in there, that she that she wasHe's got her still!' He walked to the edge of the terrace, and

looked down into the darkness; he could just see the powdering of the daisies on the unmown lawn. Here

today and gone tomorrow! And there came the moon, who saw all, young and old, alive and dead, and

didn't care a dump! His own turn soon. For a single day of youth he would give what was left! And he turned

again towards the house. He could see the windows of the night nursery up there. His little sweet would be

asleep. 'Hope that dog won't wake her!' he thought. 'What is it makes us love, and makes us die! I must go to

And across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he passed back within.

How should an old man live his days if not in dreaming of his wellspent past? In that, at all events, there is

no agitating warmth, only pale winter sunshine. The shell can withstand the gentle beating of the dynamos of

memory. The present he should distrust; the future shun. From beneath thick shade he should watch the

sunlight creeping at his toes. If there be sun of summer, let him not go out into it, mistaking it for the

Indiansummer sun! Thus peradventure he shall decline softly, slowly, imperceptibly, until impatient Nature

clutches his windpipe and he gasps away to death some early morning before the world is aired, and they

put on his tombstone: 'In the fulness of years!' yea! If he preserve his principles in perfect order, a Forsyte

Old Jolyon was conscious of all this, and yet there was in him that which transcended Forsyteism. For it is

written that a Forsyte shall not love beauty more than reason; nor his own way more than his own health. And

something beat within him in these days that with each throb fretted at the thinning shell. His sagacity knew

this, but it knew too that he could not stop that beating, nor would if he could. And yet, if you had told him he

was living on his capital, he would have stared you down. No, no; a man did not live on his capital; it was not

done! The shibboleths of the past are ever more real than the actualities of the present. And he, to whom

living on one's capital had always been anathema, could not have borne to have applied so gross a phrase to

his own case. Pleasure is healthful; beauty good to see; to live again in the youth of the youngand what

Methodically, as had been the way of his whole life, he now arranged his time. On Tuesdays he journeyed up

to town by train; Irene came and dined with him. And they went to the opera. On Thursdays he drove to

town, and, putting that fat chap and his horses up, met her in Kensington Gardens, picking up the carriage

after he had left her, and driving home again in time for dinner. He threw out the casual formula that he had

business in London on those two days. On Wednesdays and Saturdays she came down to give Holly music

lessons. The greater the pleasure he took in her society, the more scrupulously fastidious he became, just a

matter offact and friendly uncle. Not even in feeling, really, was he morefor, after all, there was his age.

And yet, if she were late he fidgeted himself to death. If she missed coming, which happened twice, his eyes

And so a month went bya month of summer in the fields, and in his heart, with summer's heat and the

fatigue thereof. Who could have believed a few weeks back that he would have looked forward to his son's

and his granddaughter's return with something like dread! There was such a delicious freedom, such

recovery of that independence a man enjoys before he founds a family, about these weeks of lovely weather,

and this new companionship with one who demanded nothing, and remained always a little unknown,

retaining the fascination of mystery. It was like a draught of wine to him who has been drinking water for so

long that he has almost forgotten the stir wine brings to his blood, the narcotic to his brain. The flowers were

coloured brighter, scents and music and the sunlight had a living valuewere no longer mere reminders of

past enjoyment. There was something now to live for which stirred him continually to anticipation. He lived

in that, not in retrospection; the difference is considerable to any so old as he. The pleasures of the table,

never of much consequence to one naturally abstemious, had lost all value. He ate little, without knowing

what he ate; and every day grew thinner and more worn to look at. He was again a 'threadpaper'; and to this

thinned form his massive forehead, with hollows at the temples, gave more dignity than ever. He was very

well aware that he ought to see the doctor, but liberty was too sweet. He could not afford to pet his frequent

shortness of breath and the pain in his side at the expense of liberty. Return to the vegetable existence he had

led among the agricultural journals with the lifesize mangold wurzels, before this new attraction came into

his lifeno! He exceeded his allowance of cigars. Two a day had always been his rule. Now he smoked

three and sometimes foura man will when he is filled with the creative spirit. But very often he thought: 'I

must give up smoking, and coffee; I must give up rattling up to town.' But he did not; there was no one in any

The servants perhaps wondered, but they were, naturally, dumb. Mam'zelle Beauce was too concerned with

her own digestion, and too 'wellbrrred' to make personal allusions. Holly had not as yet an eye for the relative

appearance of him who was her plaything and her god. It was left for Irene herself to beg him to eat more, to

rest in the hot part of the day, to take a tonic, and so forth. But she did not tell him that she was the a cause of

his thinness for one cannot see the havoc oneself is working. A man of eighty five has no passions, but

the Beauty which produces passion works on in the old way, till death closes the eyes which crave the sight

On the first day of the second week in July he received a letter from his son in Paris to say that they would all

be back on Friday. This had always been more sure than Fate; but, with the pathetic improvidence given to

the old, that they may endure to the end, he had never quite admitted it. Now he did, and something would

have to be done. He had ceased to be able to imagine life without this new interest, but that which is not

imagined sometimes exists, as Forsytes are perpetually finding to their cost. He sat in his old leather chair,

doubling up the letter, and mumbling with his lips the end of an unlighted cigar. After tomorrow his

Tuesday expeditions to town would have to be abandoned. He could still drive up, perhaps, once a week, on

the pretext of seeing his man of business. But even that would be dependent on his health, for now they

would begin to fuss about him. The lessons! The lessons must go on! She must swallow down her scruples,

and June must put her feelings in her pocket. She had done so once, on the day after the news of Bosinney's

death; what she had done then, she could surely do again now. Four years since that injury was inflicted on

her not Christian to keep the memory of old sores alive. June's will was strong, but his was stronger, for

his sands were running out. Irene was soft, surely she would do this for him, subdue her natural shrinking,

sooner than give him pain! The lessons must continue; for if they did, he was secure. And lighting his cigar at

last, he began trying to shape out how to put it to them all, and explain this strange intimacy; how to veil and

wrap it away from the naked truththat he could not bear to be deprived of the sight of beauty. Ah! Holly!

Holly was fond of her, Holly liked her lessons. She would save himhis little sweet! And with that happy

thought he became serene, and wondered what he had been worrying about so fearfully. He must not worry, it

That evening after dinner he had a return of the dizziness, though he did not faint. He would not ring the bell,

because he knew it would mean a fuss, and make his going up on the morrow more conspicuous. When one

grew old, the whole world was in conspiracy to limit freedom, and for what reason?just to keep the breath

in him a little longer. He did not want it at such cost. Only the dog Balthasar saw his lonely recovery from

that weakness; anxiously watched his master go to the sideboard and drink some brandy, instead of giving

him a biscuit. When at last old Jolyon felt able to tackle the stairs he went up to bed. And, though still shaky

next morning, the thought of the evening sustained and strengthened him. It was always such a pleasure to

give her a good dinnerhe suspected her of undereating when she was alone; and, at the opera to watch her

eyes glow and brighten, the unconscious smiling of her lips. She hadn't much pleasure, and this was the last

time he would be able to give her that treat. But when he was packing his bag he caught himself wishing that

he had not the fatigue of dressing for dinner before him, and the exertion, too, of telling her about June's

The opera that evening was 'Carmen,' and he chose the last entr'acte to break the news, instinctively putting it

She took it quietly, queerly; in fact, he did not know how she had taken it before the wayward music lifted up

again and silence became necessary. The mask was down over her face, that mask behind which so much

went on that he could not see. She wanted time to think it over, no doubt! He would not press her, for she

would be coming to give her lesson tomorrow afternoon, and he should see her then when she had got used

to the idea. In the cab he talked only of the Carmen; he had seen better in the old days, but this one was not

bad at all. When he took her hand to say goodnight, she bent quickly forward and kissed his forehead.

"Tomorrow then," he said. "Goodnight. Sleep well." She echoed softly: "Sleep welll" and from the cab

window, already moving away, he saw her face screwed round towards him, and her hand put out in a gesture

He sought his room slowly. They never gave him the same, and he could not get used to these

'spickandspandy' bedrooms with new furniture and greygreen carpets sprinkled all over with pink roses.

His French had never been equal to its words, but its sense he knew, if it had any sense, a gipsy thingwild

and unaccountable. Well, there was in life something which upset all your care and planssomething which

made men and women dance to its pipes. And he lay staring from deepsunk eyes into the darkness where

the unaccountable held sway. You thought you had hold of life, but it slipped away behind you, took you by

the scruff of the neck, forced you here and forced you there, and then, likely as not, squeezed life out of you!

It took the very stars like that, he shouldn't wonder, rubbed their noses together and flung them apart; it had

never done playing its pranks. Five million people in this great blunderbuss of a town, and all of them at the

mercy of that Life Force, like a lot of little dried peas hopping about on a board when you struck your fist

on it. Ah, well! Himself would not hop much longera good long sleep would do him good!

How hot it was up here!how noisy! His forehead burned; she had kissed it just where he always worried;

just thereas if she had known the very place and wanted to kiss it all away for him. But, instead, her lips

left a patch of grievous uneasiness. She had never spoken in quite that voice, had never before made that

He got out of bed and pulled the curtains aside; his room faced down over the river. There was little air, but

the sight of that breadth of water flowing by, calm, eternal, soothed him. 'The great thing,' he thought 'is not

to make myself a nuisance. I'll think of my little sweet, and go to sleep.' But it was long before the heat and

throbbing of the London night died out into the short slumber of the summer morning. And old Jolyon had

When he reached home next day he went out to the flower garden, and with the help of Holly, who was very

delicate with flowers, gathered a great bunch of carnations. They were, he told her, for 'the lady in grey'a

name still bandied between them; and he put them in a bowl in his study where he meant to tackle Irene the

moment she came, on the subject of June and future lessons. Their fragrance and colour would help. After

lunch he lay down, for he felt very tired, and the carriage would not bring her from the station till four

o'clock. But as the hour approached he grew restless, and sought the schoolroom, which overlooked the drive.

The sunblinds were down, and Holly was there with Mademoiselle Beauce, sheltered from the heat of a

stifling July day, attending to their silkworms. Old Jolyon had a natural antipathy to these methodical

creatures, whose heads and colour reminded him of elephants; who nibbled such quantities of holes in nice

green leaves; and smelled, as he thought, horrid. He sat down on a chintzcovered windowseat whence he

could see the drive, and get what air there was; and the dog Balthasar who appreciated chintz on hot days,

jumped up beside him. Over the cottage piano a violet dustsheet, faded almost to grey, was spread, and on it

the first lavender, whose scent filled the room. In spite of the coolness here, perhaps because of that coolness

the beat of life vehemently impressed his ebbeddown senses. Each sunbeam which came through the chinks

had annoying brilliance; that dog smelled very strong; the lavender perfume was overpowering; those

silkworms heaving up their greygreen backs seemed horribly alive; and Holly's dark head bent over them

had a wonderfully silky sheen. A marvellous cruelly strong thing was life when you were old and weak; it

seemed to mock you with its multitude of forms and its beating vitality. He had never, till those last few

weeks, had this curious feeling of being with one half of him eagerly borne along in the stream of life, and

with the other half left on the bank, watching that helpless progress. Only when Irene was with him did he

Holly turned her head, pointed with her little brown fist to the pianofor to point with a finger was not

Old Jolyon's heart gave a flutter, and for a second the room was clouded; then it cleared, and he said with a

That prim little Frenchwoman! She hadn't yet got over the music lessons being taken away from her. That

wouldn't help. His little sweet was the only friend they had. Well, they were her lessons. And he shouldn't

budge shouldn't budge for anything. He stroked the warm wool on Balthasar's head, and heard Holly say:

"When mother's home, there won't be any changes, will there? She doesn't like strangers, you know."

The child's words seemed to bring the chilly atmosphere of opposition about old Jolyon, and disclose all the

menace to his newfound freedom. Ah! He would have to resign himself to being an old man at the mercy of

care and love, or fight to keep this new and prized companionship; and to fight tired him to death. But his

thin, worn face hardened into resolution till it appeared all Jaw. This was his house, and his affair; he should

not budge! He looked at his watch, old and thin like himself; he had owned it fifty years. Past four already!

And kissing the top of Holly's head in passing, he went down to the hall. He wanted to get hold of her before

she went up to give her lesson. At the first sound of wheels he stepped out into the porch, and saw at once

Old Jolyon gave him a sharp upward look, his eyes seemed to push away that fat chap's curiosity, and defy

"Very well," he said, and turned back into the house. He went to his study and sat down, quivering like a leaf.

What did this mean? She might have lost her train, but he knew well enough she hadn't. 'Goodbye, dear

Uncle Jolyon.' Why 'Goodbye' and not 'Good night'? And that hand of hers lingering in the air. And her

kiss. What did it mean? Vehement alarm and irritation took possession of him. He got up and began to pace

the Turkey carpet, between window and wall. She was going to give him up! He felt it for certain and he

defenceless. An old man wanting to look on beauty! It was ridiculous! Age closed his mouth, paralysed his

power to fight. He had no right to what was warm and living, no right to anything but memories and sorrow.

He could not plead with her; even an old man has his dignity. Defenceless! For an hour, lost to bodily fatigue,

he paced up and down, past the bowl of carnations he had plucked, which mocked him with its scent. Of all

things hard to bear, the prostration of willpower is hardest, for one who has always had his way. Nature had

got him in its net, and like an unhappy fish he turned and swam at the meshes, here and there, found no hole,

no breaking point. They brought him tea at five o'clock, and a letter. For a moment hope beat up in him. He

"DEAREST UNCLE JOLYON,I can't bear to write anything that may disappoint you, but I was too

cowardly to tell you last night. I feel I can't come down and give Holly any more lessons, now that June is

coming back. Some things go too deep to be forgotten. It has been such a joy to see you and Holly. Perhaps I

shall still see you sometimes when you come up, though I'm sure it's not good for you; I can see you are tiring

yourself too much. I believe you ought to rest quite quietly all this hot weather, and now you have your son

and June coming back you will be so happy. Thank you a million times for all your sweetness to me.

So, there it was! Not good for him to have pleasure and what he chiefly cared about; to try and put off feeling

the inevitable end of all things, the approach of death with its stealthy, rustling footsteps. Not good for him!

Not even she could see how she was his new lease of interest in life, the incarnation of all the beauty he felt

His tea grew cold, his cigar remained unlit; and up and down he paced, torn between his dignity and his hold

on life. Intolerable to be squeezed out slowly, without a say of your own, to live on when your will was in the

hands of others bent on weighing you to the ground with care and love. Intolerable! He would see what

telling her the truth would dothe truth that he wanted the sight of her more than just a lingering on. He sat

down at his old bureau and took a pen. But he could not write. There was some thing revolting in having to

plead like this; plead that she should warm his eyes with her beauty. It was tantamount to confessing dotage.

"I had hoped that the memory of old sores would not be allowed to stand in the way of what is a pleasure and

a profit to me and my little granddaughter. But old men learn to forego their whims; they are obliged to,

even the whim to live must be foregone sooner or later; and perhaps the sooner the better. "My love to you,

'Bitter,' he thought, 'but I can't help it. I'm tired.' He sealed and dropped it into the box for the evening post,

and hearing it fall to the bottom, thought: 'There goes all I've looked forward to!'

That evening after dinner which he scarcely touched, after his cigar which he left halfsmoked for it made

him feel faint, he went very slowly upstairs and stole into the nightnursery. He sat down on the

windowseat. A nightlight was burning, and he could just see Holly's face, with one hand underneath the

cheek. An early cockchafer buzzed in the Japanese paper with which they had filled the grate, and one of the

horses in the stable stamped restlessly. To sleep like that child! He pressed apart two rungs of the venetian

blind and looked out. The moon was rising, bloodred. He had never seen so red a moon. The woods and

fields out there were dropping to sleep too, in the last glimmer of the summer light. And beauty, like a spirit,

walked. 'I've had a long life,' he thought, 'the best of nearly everything. I'm an ungrateful chap; I've seen a lot

of beauty in my time. Poor young Bosinney said I had a sense of beauty. There's a man in the moon tonight!'

A moth went by, another, another. 'Ladies in grey!' He closed his eyes. A feeling that he would never open

them again beset him; he let it grow, let himself sink; then, with a shiver, dragged the lids up. There was

something wrong with him, no doubt, deeply wrong; he would have to have the doctor after all. It didn't much

matter now! Into that coppice the moonlight would have crept; there would be shadows, and those shadows

would be the only things awake. No birds, beasts, flowers, insects; Just the shadows moving; 'Ladies in

grey!' Over that log they would climb; would whisper together. She and Bosinney! Funny thought! And the

frogs and little things would whisper too! How the clock ticked, in here! It was all eerieout there in the light

of that red moon; in here with the little steady nightlight and, the ticking clock and the nurse's

dressinggown hanging from the edge of the screen, tall, like a woman's figure. 'Lady in grey!' And a very

odd thought beset him: Did she exist? Had she ever come at all? Or was she but the emanation of all the

beauty he had loved and must leave so soon? The violetgrey spirit with the dark eyes and the crown of

amber hair, who walks the dawn and the moonlight, and at bluebell time? What was she, who was she, did

she exist? He rose and stood a moment clutching the windowsill, to give him a sense of reality again; then

began tiptoeing towards the door. He stopped at the foot of the bed; and Holly, as if conscious of his eyes

fixed on her, stirred, sighed, and curled up closer in defence. He tiptoed on and passed out into the dark

passage; reached his room, undressed at once, and stood before a mirror in his nightshirt. What a

scarecrowwith temples fallen in, and thin legs! His eyes resisted his own image, and a look of pride came

on his face. All was in league to pull him down, even his reflection in the glass, but he was not downyet!

He got into bed, and lay a long time without sleeping, trying to reach resignation, only too well aware that

fretting and disappointment were very bad for him. He woke in the morning so unrefreshed and strengthIess

that he sent for the doctor. After sounding him, the fellow pulled a face as long as your arm, and ordered him

to stay in bed and give up smoking. That was no hardship; there was nothing to get up for, and when he felt

ill, tobacco always lost its savour. He spent the morning languidly with the sunblinds down, turning and

returning The Times, not reading much, the dog Balthasar lying beside his bed. With his lunch they brought

'Your letter received coming down this afternoon will be with you at fourthirty. Irene.'

Coming down! After all! Then she did existand he was not deserted. Coming down! A glow ran through

his limbs; his cheeks and forehead felt hot. He drank his soup, and pushed the tray table away, lying very

quiet until they had removed lunch and left him alone; but every now and then his eyes twinkled. Coming

down! His heart beat fast, and then did not seem to beat at all. At three o'clock he got up and dressed

deliberately, noiselessly. Holly and Mam'zelle would be in the schoolroom, and the servants asleep after their

dinner, he shouldn't wonder. He opened his door cautiously, and went downstairs. In the hall the dog

Balthasar lay solitary, and, followed by him, old Jolyon passed into his study and out into the burning

afternoon. He meant to go down and meet her in the coppice, but felt at once he could not manage that in this

heat. He sat down instead under the oak tree by the swing, and the dog Balthasar, who also felt the heat, lay

down beside him. He sat there smiling. What a revel of bright minutes! What a hum of insects, and cooing of

pigeons! It was the quintessence of a summer day. Lovely! And he was happyhappy as a sandboy, what

ever that might be. She was coming; she had not given him up! He had everything in life he wantedexcept

a little more breath, and less weightjust here! He would see her when she emerged from the fernery, come

swaying just a little, a violetgrey figure passing over the daisies and dandelions and 'soldiers' on the

lawnthe soldiers with their flowery crowns. He would not move, but she would come up to him and say:

'Dear Uncle Jolyon, I am sorry!' and sit in the swing and let him look at her and tell her that he had not been

very well but was all right now; and that dog would lick her hand. That dog knew his master was fond of her;

It was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him, only make the rest of the world bright so that

he could see the Grand Stand at Epsom away out there, very far, and the cows crop ping the clover in the

field and swishing at the flies with their tails. He smelled the scent of limes, and lavender. Ah! that was why

there was such a racket of bees. They were excitedbusy, as his heart was busy and excited. Drowsy, too,

drowsy and drugged on honey and happiness; as his heart was drugged and drowsy. Summer

The stable clock struck four; in half an hour she would be here. He would have just one tiny nap, because he

had had so little sleep of late; and then he would be fresh for her, fresh for youth and beauty, coming towards

him across the sunlit lawnlady in grey! And settling back in his chair he closed his eyes. Some thistle

down came on what little air there was, and pitched on his moustache more white than itself. He did not

know; but his breathing stirred it, caught there. A ray of sunlight struck through and lodged on his boot. A

bumblebee alighted and strolled on the crown of his Panama hat. And the delicious surge of slumber

reached the brain beneath that hat, and the head swayed forward and rested on his breast. Summersummer!

The stable clock struck the quarter past. The dog Balthasar stretched and looked up at his master. The

thistledown no longer moved. The dog placed his chin over the sunlit foot. It did not stir. The dog withdrew

his chin quickly, rose, and leaped on old Jolyon's lap, looked in his face, whined; then, leaping down, sat on

The possessive instinct never stands still. Through florescence and feud, frosts and fires, it followed the laws

of progression even in the Forsyte family which had believed it fixed for ever. Nor can it be dissociated from

The historian of the English eighties and nineties will, in his good time, depict the somewhat rapid

progression from self contented and contained provincialism to still more selfcontented if less contained

imperialismin other words, the 'possessive' instinct of the nation on the move. And so, as if in conformity,

was it with the Forsyte family. They were spreading not merely on the surface, but within.

When, in 1895, Susan Hayman, the married Forsyte sister, followed her husband at the ludicrously low age of

seventyfour, and was cremated, it made strangely little stir among the six old Forsytes left. For this apathy

there were three causes. First: the almost surreptitious burial of old Jolyon in 1892 down at Robin Hill first

of the Forsytes to desert the family grave at Highgate. That burial, coming a year after Swithin's entirely

proper funeral, had occasioned a great deal of talk on Forsyte 'Change, the abode of Timothy Forsyte on the

Bayswater Road, London, which still col lected and radiated family gossip. Opinions ranged from the

lamentation of Aunt Juley to the outspoken assertion of Francie that it was 'a jolly good thing to stop all that

stuffy Highgate business.' Uncle Jolyon in his later yearsindeed, ever since the strangeand lamentable

affair between his granddaughter June's lover, young Bosinney, and Irene, his nephew Soames Forsyte's

wife had noticeably rapped the family's knuckles; and that way of his own which he had always taken had

begun to seem to them a little wayward. The philosophic vein in him, of course, had always been too liable to

crop out of the strata of pure Forsyteism, so they were in a way prepared for his interment in a strange spot.

But the whole thing was an odd business, and when the contents of his Will became current coin on Forsyte

'Change, a shiver had gone round the clan. Out of his estate (L145,304 gross, with liabilities L35 7s. 4d.) he

had actually left L15,000 to "whomever do you think, my dear? To Irene!" that runaway wife of his nephew

Soames; Irene, a woman who had almost disgraced the family, and still more amazing was to him no blood

relation. Not out and out, of course; only a life interestonly the income from it! Still, there it was; and old

Jolyon's claim to be the perfect Forsyte was ended once for all. That, then, was the first reason why the burial

of Susan Haymanat Wokingmade little stir. The second reason was altogether more expansive and

imperial. Besides the house on Campden Hill, Susan had a place (left her by Hayman when he died) just over

the border in Hants, where the Hayman boys had learned to be such good shots and riders, as it was believed,

which was of course nice for them, and creditable to everybody; and the fact of owning something really

countrified seemed somehow to excuse the dispersion of her remainsthough what could have put

cremation into her head they could not think! The usual invitations, however, had been issued, and Soames

had gone down and young Nicholas, and the Will had been quite satisfactory so far as it went, for she had

only had a life interest; and everything had gone quite smoothly to the children in equal shares.

The third reason why Susan's burial made little stir was the most expansive of all. It was summed up daringly

by Euphemia, the pale, the thin: "Well, I think people have a right to their own bodies, even when they're

dead." Coming from a daughter of Nicholas, a Liberal of the old school and most tyrannical, it was a startling

remarkshowing in a flash what a lot of water had run under bridges since the death of Aunt Ann in '86, just

when the proprietorship of Soames over his wife's body was acquiring the uncertainty which had led to such

disaster. Euphemia, of course, spoke like a child, and had no experience; for though well over thirty by now,

her name was still Forsyte. But, making all allowances, her remark did undoubtedly show expansion of the

principle of liberty, decentralisation and shift in the central point of possession from others to oneself. When

Nicholas heard his daughter's remark from Aunt Hester he had rapped out: "Wives and daughters! There's no

end to their liberty in these days. I knew that 'Jackson' case would lead to thingslugging in Habeas Corpus

like that!" He had, of course, never really forgiven the Married Woman's Property Act, which would so have

interfered with him if hehad not mercifully married before it was passed. But, in truth, there was no

denying the revolt among the younger Forsytes against being owned by others; that, as it were, Colonial

disposition to own oneself, which is the paradoxical forerunner of Imperialism, was making progress all the

time. They were all now married, except George, confirmed to the Turf and the Iseeum Club; Francie,

pursuing her musical career in a studio off the King's Road, Chelsea, and still taking 'lovers' to dances;

Euphemia, living at home and complaining of Nicholas; and those two Dromios, Giles and Jesse Hayman. Of

the third generation there were not very manyyoung Jolyon had three, Winifred Dartie four, young

Nicholas six already, young Roger had one, Marian Tweetyman one; St. John Hayman two. But the rest of

the sixteen marriedSoames, Rachel and Cicely of James' family; Eustace and Thomas of Roger's; Ernest,

Archibald and Florence of Nicholas'; Augustus and Annabel Spender of the Hayman'swere going down the

Thus, of the ten old Forsytes twentyone young Forsytes had been born; but of the twentyone young

Forsytes there were as yet only seventeen descendants; and it already seemed unlikely that there would be

more than a further unconsidered trifle or so. A student of statistics must have noticed that the birth rate had

varied in accordance with the rate of interest for your money. Grandfather 'Superior Dosset' Forsyte in the

early nineteenth century had been getting ten per cent. for his, hence ten children. Those ten, leaving out the

four who had not married, and Juley, whose husband Septimus Small had, of course, died almost at once, had

averaged from four to five per cent. for theirs, and produced accordingly. The twentyone whom they

produced were now getting barely three per cent. in the Consols to which their father had mostly tied the

Settlements they made to avoid death duties, and the six of them who had been reproduced had seventeen

There were other reasons, too, for this mild reproduction. A distrust of their earning powers, natural where a

sufficiency is guaranteed, together with the knowledge that their fathers did not die, kept them cautious. If

one had children and not much income, the standard of taste and comfort must of necessity go down; what

was enough for two was not enough for four, and so onit would be better to wait and see what Father did.

Besides, it was nice to be able to take holidays unhampered. Sooner in fact than own children, they preferred

to concentrate on the ownership of them selves, conforming to the growing tendency fin de siecle, as it was

called. In this way, little risk was run, and one would be able to have a motorcar. Indeed, Eustace already

had one, but it had shaken him horribly, and broken one of his eye teeth; so that it would be better to wait till

they were a little safer. In the meantime, no more children! Even young Nicholas was drawing in his horns,

The corporate decay, however, of the Forsytes, their dispersion rather, of which all this was symptomatic, had

not advanced so far as to prevent a rally when Roger Forsyte died in 1899. It had been a glorious summer,

and after holidays abroad and at the sea they were practically all back in London, when Roger with a touch of

his old originality had suddenly breathed his last at his own house in Princes Gardens. At Timothy's it was

whispered sadly that poor Roger had always been eccentric about his digestionhad he not, for instance,

preferred German mutton to all the other brands? Be that as it may, his funeral at Highgate had been perfect,

and coming away from it Soames Forsyte made almost mechanically for his Uncle Timothy's in the

Bayswater Road. The 'Old Things'Aunt Juley and Aunt Hesterwould like to hear about. it. His father

Jamesat eightyeight had not felt up to the fatigue of the funeral; and Timothy himself, of course, had not

gone; so that Nicholas had been the only brother present. Still, there had been a fair gathering; and it would

cheer Aunts Juley and Hester up to know. The kindly thought was not unmixed with the inevitable longing to

get something out of everything you do, which is the chief characteristic of Forsytes, and indeed of the saner

elements in every nation. In this practice of taking family matters to Timothy's in the Bayswater Road,

Soames was but following in the footsteps of his father, who had been in the habit of going at least once a

week to see his sisters at Timothy's, and had only given it up when he lost his nerve at eightysix, and could

not go out without Emily. To go with Emily was of no use, for who could really talk to anyone in the

presence of his own wife? Like James in the old days, Soames found time to go there nearly every Sunday,

and sit in the little drawingroom into which, with his undoubted taste, he had introduced a good deal of

change and china not quite up to his own fastidious mark, and at least two rather doubtful Barbizon pictures,

at Christmastides. He himself, who had done extremely well with the Barbizons, had for some years past

moved towards the Marises, Israels, and Mauve, and was hoping to do better. In the riverside house which he

now inhabited near Mapledurham he had a gallery, beautifully hung and lighted, to which few London

dealers were strangers. It served, too, as a Sunday afternoon attraction in those weekend parties which his

sisters, Winifred or Rachel, occasionally organised for him. For though he was but a taciturn showman, his

quiet collected determinism seldom failed to influence his guests, who knew that his reputation was grounded

not on mere aesthetic fancy, but on his power of gauging the future of market values. When he went to

Timothy's he almost always had some little tale of triumph over a dealer to unfold, and dearly he loved that

coo of pride with which his aunts would greet it. This afternoon, however, he was differently animated,

coming from Roger's funeral in his neat dark clothesnot quite black, for after all an uncle was but an uncle,

and his soul abhorred excessive display of feeling. Leaning back in a marqueterie chair and gazing down his

uplifted, nose at the skyblue walls plastered with gold frames, he was noticeably silent. Whether because he

had been to a funeral or not, the peculiar Forsyte build of his face was seen to the best advantage this

afternoona face concave and long, with a jaw which divested of flesh would have seemed extravagant:

altogether a chinny face though not at all illlooking. He was feeling more strongly than ever that Timothy's

was hopelessly 'rumtitoo' and the souls of his aunts dismally midVictorian. The subject on which alone

he wanted to talkhis own undivorced positionwas unspeakable. And yet it occupied his mind to the

exclusion of all else. It was only since the Spring that this had been so and a new feeling grown up which was

egging him on towards what he knew might well be folly in a Forsyte of fortyfive. More and more of late he

had been conscious that he was 'getting on.' The fortune already considerable when he conceived the house at

Robin Hill which had finally wrecked his marriage with Irene, had mounted with surprising vigour in the

twelve lonely years during which he had devoted himself to little else. He was worth today well over a

hundred thousand pounds, and had no one to leave it tono real object for going on with what was his

religion. Even if he were to relax his efforts, money made money, and he felt that he would have a hundred

and fifty thousand before he knew where he was. There had always been a strongly domestic,

philoprogenitive side to Soames; baulked and frustrated, it had hidden itself away, but now had crept out

again in this his 'prime of life.' Concreted and focussed of late by the attraction of a girl's undoubted beauty, it

had become a veritable prepossession. And this girl was French, not likely to lose her head, or accept any

unlegalised position. Moreover, Soames himself disliked the thought of that. He had tasted of the sordid side

of sex during those long years of forced celibacy, secretively, and always with disgust, for he was fastidious,

and his sense of law and order innate. He wanted no hole and corner liaison. A marriage at the Embassy in

Paris, a few months' travel, and he could bring Annette back quite separated from a past which in truth was

not too distinguished, for she only kept the accounts in her mother's Soho Restaurant; he could bring her back

as something very new and chic with her French taste and selfpossession, to reign at 'The Shelter' near

Mapledurham. On Forsyte 'Change and among his riverside friends it would be current that he had met a

charming French girl on his travels and married her. There would be the flavour of romance, and a certain

cachet about a French wife. No! He was not at all afraid of that. It was only this cursed undivorced condition

of his, andand the question whether Annette would take him, which he dared not put to the touch until he

In his aunts' drawingroom he heard with but muffled ears those usual questions: How was his dear father?

Not going out, of course, now that the weather was turning chilly? Would Soames be sure to tell him that

Hester had found boiled holly leaves most comforting for that pain in her side; a poultice every three hours,

with red flannel afterwards. And could he relish just a little pot of their very best prune preserve it was so

delicious this year, and had such a wonderful effect. Oh! and about the Dartieshad Soames heard that dear

Winifred was having a most distressing time with Montague? Timothy thought she really ought to have

protect ion. It was saidbut Soames mustn't take this for certainthat he had given some of Winifred's

jewellery to a dreadful dancer. It was such a bad example for dear Val just as he was going to college.

Soames had not heard? Oh, but he must go and see his sister and look into it at once! And did he think these

Boers were really going to resist? Timothy was in quite a stew about it. The price of Consols was so high,

and he had such a lot of money in them. Did Soames think they must go down if there was a war? Soames

nodded. But it would be over very quickly. It would be so bad for Timothy if it wasn't. And of course

Soames' dear father would feel it very much at his age. Luckily poor dear Roger had been spared this dreadful

anxiety. And Aunt Juley with a little handkerchief wiped away the large tear trying to climb the permanent

pout on her now quite withered left cheek; she was remembering dear Roger, and all his originality, and how

he used to stick pins into her when they were little together. Aunt Hester, with her instinct for avoiding the

unpleasant, here chimed in: Did Soames think they would make Mr. Chamberlain Prime Minister at once? He

would settle it all so quickly. She would like to see that old Kruger sent to St. Helena. She could remember so

well the news of Napoleon's death, and what a, relief it had been to his grandfather. Of course she and

Juley..." We were in pantalettes then, my dear"had not felt it much at the time.

Soames took a cup of tea from her, drank it quickly, and ate three of those macaroons for which Timothy's

was famous. His faint, pale, supercilious smile had deepened just a little. Really, his family remained

hopelessly provincial, however much of London they might possess between them. In these goahead days

their provinc ialism stared out even more than it used to. Why, old Nicholas was still a Free Trader, and a

member of that antediluvian home of Liberalism, the Remove Clubthough, to be sure, the members were

pretty well all Conservatives now, or he himself could not have joined; and Timothy, they said, still wore a

nightcap. Aunt Juley spoke again. Dear Soames was looking so well, hardly a day older than he did when

dear Ann died, and they were all there together, dear Jolyon, and dear Swithin, and dear Roger. She paused

and caught the tear which had climbed the pout on her right cheek. Did hedid he ever hear anything of

Irene nowadays? Aunt Hester visibly interposed her shoulder. Really, Juley was always saying something!

The smile left Soames' face, and he put his cup down. Here was his subject broached for him, and for all his

"They say dear Jolyon first left her that fifteen thousand out and out; then of course he saw it would not be

"Your cousin Jolyon is a widower now. He is her trustee; you knew that, of course?"

Soames shook his head. He did know, but wished to show no interest. Young Jolyon and he had not met since

"He must be quite middleaged by now," went on Aunt Juley dreamily. "Let me see, he was born when your

dear uncle lived in Mount Street; long before they went to Stanhope Gate in December. Just before that

dreadful Commune. Over fifty! Fancy that! Such a pretty baby, and we were all so proud of him; the very

first of you all." Aunt Juley sighed, and a lock of not quite her own hair came loose and straggled, so that

Aunt Hester gave a little shiver. Soames rose, he was experiencing a curious piece of selfdiscovery. That old

wound to his pride and selfesteem was not yet closed. He had come thinking he could talk of it, even

wanting to talk of his fettered condition, andbehold! he was shrinking away from this reminder by Aunt

"Yes. Goodbye. Remember me to Uncle Timothy!" And, leaving a cold kiss on each forehead, whose

wrinkles seemed to try and cling to his lips as if longing to be kissed away, he left them looking brightly after

himdear Soames, it had been so good of him to come today, when they were not feeling very....!

With compunction tweaking at his chest Soames descended the stairs, where was always that rather pleasant

smell of camphor and port wine, and house where draughts are not permitted. The poor old thingshe had

not meant to be unkind! And in the street he instantly forgot them, repossessed by the image of Annette and

the thought of the cursed coil around him. Why had he not pushed the thing through and obtained divorce

when that wretched Bosinney was run over, and there was evidence galore for the asking! And he turned

That a man of the world so subject to the vicissitudes of fortunes as Montague Dartie should still be living in

a house he had inhabited twenty years at least would have been more noticeable if the rent, rates, taxes, and

repairs of that house had not been defrayed by his fatherinlaw. By that simple if wholesale device James

Forsyte had secured a certain stability in the lives of his daughter and his grandchildren. After all, there is

something invaluable about a safe roof over the head of a sportsman so dashing as Dartie. Until the events of

the last few days he had been almostsupernaturally steady all this year. The fact was he had acquired a half

share in a filly of George Forsyte's, who had gone irreparably on the turf, to the horror of Roger, now stilled

by the grave. Sleevelinks, by Martyr, out of Shirtonfire, by Suspender, was a bay filly, three years old,

who for a variety of reasons had never shown her true form. With half ownership of this hopeful animal, all

the idealism latent somewhere in Dartie, as in every other man, had put up its head, and kept him quietly

ardent for months past. When a man has some thing good to live for it is astonishing how sober he becomes;

and what Dartie had was really gooda three to one chance for an autumn handicap, publicly assessed at

twentyfive to one. The oldfashioned heaven was a poor thing beside it, and his shirt was on the daughter of

Shirt onfire. But how much more than his shirt depended on this granddaughter of Suspender! At that

roving age of fortyfive, trying to Forsytesand, though perhaps less distinguishable from any other age,

trying even to DartiesMontague had fixed his current fancy on a dancer. It was no mean passion, but

without money, and a good deal of it, likely to remain a love as airy as her skirts; and Dartie never had any

money, subsisting miserably on what he could beg or borrow from Winifreda woman of character, who

kept him because he was the father of her children, and from a lingering admiration for those nowdying

Wardour Street good looks which in their youth had fascinated her. She, together with anyone else who

would lend him anything, and his losses at cards and on the turf (extraordinary how some men make a good

thing out of losses!) were his whole means of subsistence; for James was now too old and nervous to

approach, and Soames too formidably adamant. 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

"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.'

The morning of the Handicap dawned clear and bright, the last day of September, and Dartie who had

travelled to Newmarket the night before, arrayed himself in spotless checks and walked to an eminence to see

his half of the filly take her final canter: If she won he would be a cool three thou. in pocketa poor enough

recompense for the sobriety and patience of these weeks of hope, while they had been nursing her for this

race. But he had not been able to afford more. Should he 'lay it off' at the eight to one to which she had

advanced? This was his single thought while the larks sang above him, and the grassy downs smelled sweet,

After all, if he lost it would not be he who paid, and to 'lay it off' would reduce his winnings to some fifteen

hundredhardly enough to purchase a dancer out and out. Even more potent was the itch in the blood of all

the Darties for a real flutter. And turning to George he said: "She's a clipper. She'll win hands down; I shall

go the whole hog." George, who had laid off every penny, and a few besides, and stood to win, however it

came out, grinned down on him from his bulky height, with the words: "So ho, my wild one!" for after a

chequered apprenticeship weathered with the money of a deeply complaining Roger, his Forsyte blood was

There are moments of disillusionment in the lives of men from which the sensitive recorder shrinks. Suffice it

to say that the good thing fell down. Sleevelinks finished in the ruck. Dartie's shirt was lost.

Between the passing of these things and the day when Soames turned his face towards Green Street, what had

When a man with the constitution of Montague Dartie has exercised selfcontrol for months from religious

motives, and remains un rewarded, he does not curse God and die, he curses God and lives, to the distress of

Winifreda plucky woman, if a little too fashionablewho had borne the brunt of him for exactly

twentyone years, had never really believed that he would do what he now did. Like so many wives, she

thought she knew the worst, but she had not yet known him in his fortyfifth year, when he, like other men,

felt that it was now or never. Paying on the 2nd of October a visit of inspec tion to her jewel case, she was

horrified to observe that her woman's crown and glory was gonethe pearls which Montague had given her

in '86, when Benedict was born, and which James had been compelled to pay for in the spring of '87, to save

scandal. She consulted her husband at once. He 'poohpoohed' the matter. They would turn up! Nor till she

said sharply: "Very well, then, Monty, I shall go down to Scotland Yard myself," did he consent to take the

matter in hand. Alas! that the steady and resolved continuity of design necessary to the accomplishment of

sweeping operations should be liable to interruption by drink. That night Dartie returned home without a care

in the world or a particle of reticence. Under normal conditions Winifred would merely have locked her door

and let him sleep it off, but torturing suspense about her pearls had caused her to wait up for him. Taking a

small revolver from his pocket and holding on to the dining table, he told her at once that he did not care a

cursh whether she lived s'long as she was quiet; but he himself wash tired o' life. Winifred, holding onto the

Placing the revolver against his chest, Dartie had pulled the trigger several times. It was not loaded. Dropping

it with an imprecation, he had muttered: "For shake o' the children," and sank into a chair. Winifred, having

picked up the revolver, gave him some soda water. The liquor had a magical effect. Life had illused him;

Winifred had never 'unshtood'm.' If he hadn't the right to take the pearls he had given her himself, who had?

That Spanish filly had got'm. If Winifred had any 'jection he w'd cut herthroat. What was the matter

with that? (Probably the first use of that celebrated phraseso obscure are the origins of even the most

Winifred, who had learned selfcontainment in a hard school, looked up at him, and said: "Spanish filly! Do

you mean that girl we saw dancing in the Pandemonium Ballet? Well, you are a thief and a blackguard." It

had been the last straw on a sorely loaded consciousness; reaching up from his chair Dartie seized his wife's

arm, and recalling the achievements of his boyhood, twisted it. Winifred endured the agony with tears in her

eyes, but no murmur. Watching for a moment of weakness, she wrenched it free; then placing the dining table

between them, said between her teeth: "You are the limit, Monty." (Undoubtedly the inception of that

phrase so is English formed under the stress of circumstances.) Leaving Dartie with foam on his dark

moustache she went upstairs, and, after locking her door and bathing her arm in hot water, lay awake all

night, thinking of her pearls adorning the neck of another, and of the consideration her husband had

The man of the world awoke with a sense of being lost to that world, and a dim recollection of having been

called a 'limit.' He sat for half an hour in the dawn and the armchair where he had slept perhaps the

unhappiest halfhour he had ever spent, for even to a Dartie there is something tragic about an end. And he

knew that he had reached it. Never again would he sleep in his diningroom and wake with the light filtering

through those curtains bought by Winifred at Nickens and Jarveys with the money of James. Never again eat

a devilled kidney at that rosewood table, after a roll in the sheets and a hot bath. He took his note case from

his dress coat pocket. Four hundred pounds, in fives and tensthe remainder of the proceeds of his half of

Sleevelinks, sold last night, cash down, to George Forsyte, who, having won over the race, had not

conceived the sudden dislike to the animal which he himself now felt. The ballet was going to Buenos Aires

the day after tomorrow, and he was going too. Full value for the pearls had not yet been received; he was

He stole upstairs. Not daring to have a bath, or shave (besides, the water would be cold), he changed his

clothes and packed stealthily all he could. It was hard to leave so many shining boots, but one must sacrifice

something. Then, carrying a valise in either hand, he stepped out onto the landing. The house was very

quietthat house where he had begotten his four children. It was a curious moment, this, outside the room of

his wife, once admired, if not perhaps loved, who had called him 'the limit.' He steeled himself with that

phrase, and tiptoed on; but the next door was harder to pass. It was the room his daughters slept in. Maud was

at school, but Imogen would be lying there; and moisture came into Dartie's early morning eyes. She was the

most like him of the four, with her dark hair, and her luscious brown glance. Just coming out, a pretty thing!

He set down the two valises. This almost formal abdication of fatherhood hurt him. The morning light fell on

a face which worked with real emotion. Nothing so false as penitence moved him; but genuine paternal

feeling, and that melancholy of 'never again.' He moistened his lips; and complete irresolution for a moment

paralysed his legs in their check trousers. It was hardhard to be thus compelled to leave his home!

"Dnit!" he muttered, "I never thought it would come to this." Noises above warned him that the maids

were beginning to get up. And grasping the two valises, he tiptoed on downstairs. His cheeks were wet, and

the knowledge of that was comforting, as though it guaranteed the genuineness of his sacrifice. He lingered a

little in the rooms below, to pack all the cigars he had, some papers, a crush hat, a silver cigarette box, a

Ruff's Guide. Then, mixing himself a stiff whisky and soda, and lighting a cigarette, he stood hesitating

before a photograph of his two girls, in a silver frame. It belonged to Winifred. 'Never mind,' he thought; 'she

can get another taken, and I can't!' He slipped it into the valise. Then; putting on his hat and overcoat, he took

two others, his best malacca cane, an umbrella, and opened the front door. Closing it softly behind him, he

walked out, burdened as he had never been in all his life, and made his way round the corner to wait there for

Thus had passed Montague Dartie in the fortyfifth year of his age from the house which he had called his

When Winifred came down, and realised that he was not in the house, her first feeling was one of dull anger

that he should thus elude the reproaches she had carefully prepared in those long wakeful hours. He had gone

off to Newmarket or Brighton, with that woman as likely as not. Disgusting! Forced to a complete reticence

before Imogen and the servants, and aware that her father's nerves would never stand the disclosure, she had

been unable to refrain from going to Timothy's that afternoon, and pouring out the story of the pearls to Aunts

Juley and Hester in utter confidence. It was only on the following morning that she noticed the disappearance

of that photograph. What did it mean? Careful examination of her husband's relics prompted the thought that

he had gone for good. As that conclusion hardened she stood quite still in the middle of his dressingroom,

with all the drawers pulled out, to try and realise what she was feeling. By no means easy! Though he was

'the limit' he was yet her property, and for the life of her she could not but feel the poorer. To be widowed yet

not widowed at fortytwo; with four children; made conspicuous, an object of commiseration! Gone to the

arms of a Spanish Jade! Memories, feelings, which she had thought quite dead, revived within her, painful,

sullen, tenacious. Mechanically she closed drawer after drawer, went to her bed, lay on it, and buried her face

in the pillows. She did not cry. What was the use of that? When she got off her bed to go down to lunch she

felt as if only one thing could do her good, and that was to have Val home. He her eldest boywho was to

go to Oxford next month at James' expense, was at Littlehampton taking his final gallops with his trainer for

Smalls, as he would have phrased it following his father's diction. She caused a telegram to be sent to him.

"I must see about his clothes," she said to Imogen; "I can't have him going up to Oxford all anyhow. Those

With an innocent shrewd look at her mother's face, Imogen kept silence. It was father, of course! Val did

Imagine a cross between a pickle and a Forsyte and you have young Publius Valerius Dartie. A youth so

named could hardly turn out otherwise. When he was born, Winifred, in the heyday of spirits, and the craving

for distinction, had determined that her children should have names such as no others had ever had. (It was a

mercy she felt nowthat she had just not named Imogen Thisbe.) But it was to George Forsyte, always a

wag, that Val's christening was due. It so happened that Dartie dining with him, a week after the birth of his

"Call him Cato," said George, "it'll be damned piquant!" He had just won a tenner on a horse of that name.

"Cato!" Dartie had repliedthey were a little 'on' as the phrase was even in those days"it's not a Christian

"Halo you!" George called to a waiter in knee breeches. "Bring me the Encyc'pedia Brit. from the Library,

"Here you are!" said George, pointing with his cigar: "Cato Publius Valerius by Virgil out of Lydia. That's

Dartie, on arriving home, had informed Winifred. She had been charmed. It was so 'chic.' And Publius

Valerius became the baby's name, though it afterwards transpired that they had got hold of the inferior Cato.

In 1890, however, when little Publius was nearly ten, the word 'chic' went out of fashion, and sobriety came

in; Winifred began to have doubts. They were confirmed by little Publius himself who returned from his first

term at school com plaining that life was a burden to himthey called him Pubby. Winifreda woman of

real decisionpromptly changed his school and his name to Val, the Publius being dropped even as an

At nineteen he was a limber, freckled youth with a wide mouth, light eyes, long dark lashes; a rather

charming smile, considerable knowledge of what he should not know, and no experience of what he ought to

do. Few boys had more narrowly escaped being expelled the engaging rascal. After kissing his mother and

pinching Imogen, he ran upstairs three at a time, and came down four, dressed for dinner. He was, awfully

sorry, but his 'trainer,' who had come up too, had asked him to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge; it wouldn't

do to missthe old chap would be hurt. Winifred let him go with an unhappy pride. She had wanted him at

home, but it was very nice to know that his tutor was so fond of him. He went out with a wink at Imogen,

saying: "I say, Mother, could I have two plover's eggs when I come in?cook's got some. They top up so

jolly well. Oh! and look herehave you any money?I had to borrow a fiver from old Snobby."

"My dear, you are naughty about money. But you shouldn't pay him tonight, anyway; you're his guest.

"Oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, Mother; and I think I ought to stand the tickets; he's always hard

He went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously, sniffing the air of Piccadilly like a young hound

He found his 'tutor,' not indeed at the Oxford and Cambridge, but at the Goat's Club. This 'tutor' was a year

older than himself, a goodlooking youth, with fine brown eyes, and smooth dark hair, a small mouth, an

oval face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, one of those young men who without effort establish moral

ascendancy over their companions. He had missed being expelled from school a year before Val, had spent

that year at Oxford, and Val could almost see a halo round his head. His name was Crum, and no one could

get through money quicker. It seemed to be his only aim in lifedazzling to young Val, in whom, however,

the Forsyte would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the value for that money was.

They dined quietly, in style and taste; left the Club smoking cigars, with just two bottles inside them, and

dropped into stalls at the Liberty. For Val the sound of comic songs, the sight of lovely legs were fogged and

interrupted by haunting fears that he would never equal Crum's quiet dandyism. His idealism was roused; and

when that is so, one is never quite at ease. Surely he had too wide a mouth, not the best cut of waistcoat, no

braid on his trousers, and his lavender gloves had no thin black stitchings down the back. Besides, he laughed

too muchCrum never laughed, he only smiled, with his regular dark brows raised a little so that they

formed a gable over his just drooped lids. No! he would never be Crum's equal. All the same it was a jolly

good show, and Cynthia Dark simply ripping. Between the acts Crum regaled him with particulars of

Cynthia's private life, and the awful knowledge became Val's that, if he liked, Crum could go behind. He

simply longed to say: "I say, take me!" but dared not, because of his deficiencies; and this made the last act or

two almost miserable. On coming out Crum said: "It's half an hour before they close; let's go on to the

Pandemonium." They took a hansom to travel the hundred yards, and seats costing sevenandsix apiece

because they were going to stand, and walked into the Promenade. It was in these little things, this utter

negligence of money that Crum had such engaging polish. The ballet was on its last legs andnight, and the

traffic of the Promenade was suffering for the moment. Men and women were crowded in three rows against

the barrier. The whirl and dazzle on the stage, the half dark, the mingled tobacco fumes and women's scent,

all that curious lure to promiscuity which belongs to Promenades, began to free young Val from his idealism.

He looked admiringly in a young woman's face, saw she was not young, and quickly looked away. Shades of

Cynthia Dark! The young woman's arm touched his unconsciously; there was a scent of musk and

mignonette. Val looked round the corner of his lashes. Perhaps she was young, after all. Her foot trod on his;

Young Val smiledhis wide, rather charming smile. Beyond that he did not gonot yet convinced. The

Forsyte in him stood out for greater certainty. And on the stage the ballet whirled its kaleidoscope of

snowwhite, salmonpink, and emeraldgreen and violet and seemed suddenly to freeze into a stilly

spangled pyramid. Applause broke out, and it was over! Maroon curtains had cut it off. The semicircle of

men and women round the barrier broke up, the young woman's arm pressed his. A little way off disturbance

seemed centring round a man with a pink carnation; Val stole another glance at the young woman, who was

looking towards it. Three men, unsteady, emerged, walking arm in arm. The one in the centre wore the pink

carnation, a white waistcoat, a dark moustache; he reeled a little as he walked. Crum's voice said slow and

level: "Look at that bounder, he's screwed!" Val turned to look. The 'bounder' had disengaged his arm, and

Val saw. It was his father! He could have sunk into the crimson carpet. It was not the meeting in this place,

not even that his father was 'screwed'; it was Crum's word 'bounder,' which, as by heavenly revelation, he

perceived at that moment to be true. Yes, his father looked a bounder with his dark good looks, and his pink

carnation, and his square, selfassertive walk. And without a word he ducked behind the young woman and

slipped out of the Promenade. He heard the word, "Val!" behind him, and ran down deepcarpeted steps past

To be ashamed of his own father is perhaps the bitterest experience a young man can go through. It seemed to

Val, hurrying away, that his career had ended before it had begun. How could he go up to Oxford now

amongst all those chaps, those splendid friends of Crum's, who would know that his father was a 'bounder'!

And suddenly he hated Crum. Who the devil was Crum, to say that? If Crum had been beside him at that

moment, he would certainly have been jostled off the pavement. His own fatherhis own! A choke came up

in his throat, and he dashed his hands down deep into his overcoat pockets. Damn Crum! He conceived the

wild idea of running back and fending his father, taking him by the arm and walking about with him in front

of Crum; but gave it up at once and pursued his way down Piccadilly. A young woman planted herself before

him. "Not so angry, darling!" He shied, dodged her, and suddenly became quite cool. If Crum ever said a

word, he would jolly well punch his head, and there would be an end of it. He walked a hundred yards or

more, contented with that thought, then lost its comfort utterly. It wasn't simple like that! He remembered

how, at school, when some parent came down who did not pass the standard, it just clung to the fellow

afterwards. It was one of those things nothing could remove. Why had his mother married his father, if he

was a 'bounder'? It was bitterly unfair jolly lowdown on a fellow to give him a 'bounder' for father. The

worst of it was that now Crum had spoken the word, he realised that he had long known subconsciously that

his father was not 'the clean potato.' It was the beastliest thing that had ever happened to himbeastliest

thing that had ever happened to any fellow! And, downhearted as he had never yet been, he came to Green

Street, and let himself in with a smuggled latchkey. In the diningroom his plover's eggs were set invitingly,

with some cut bread and butter, and a little whisky at the bottom of a decanter just enough, as Winifred

had thought, for him to feel himself a man. It made him sick to look at them, and he went upstairs.

Winifred heard him pass, and thought: 'The dear boy's in. Thank goodness! If he takes after his father I don't

When Soames entered his sister's little Louis Quinze drawingroom, with its small balcony, always flowered

with hanging geraniums in the summer, and now with pots of Lilium Auratum, he was struck by the

immutability of human affairs. It looked just the same as on his first visit to the newly married Darties

twentyone years ago. He had chosen the furniture himself, and so completely that no subsequent purchase

had ever been able to change the room's atmosphere. Yes, he had founded his sister well, and she had wanted

it. Indeed, it said a great deal for Winifred that after all this time with Dartie she remained wellfounded.

From the first Soames had nosed out Dartie's nature from underneath the plausibility, savoir faire, and good

looks which had dazzled Winifred, her mother, and even James, to the extent of permitting the fellow to

marry his daughter without bringing anything but shares of no value into settlement.

Winifred, whom he noticed next to the furniture, was sitting at her Buhl bureau with a letter in her hand. She

rose and came towards him. Tall as himself, strong in the cheekbones, well tailored, something in her face

disturbed Soames. She crumpled the letter in her hand, but seemed to change her mind and held it out to him.

'You will not get chance to insult in my own again. I am leaving country tomorrow. It's played out. I'm tired

of being insulted by you. You've brought on yourself. No selfrespecting man can stand it. I shall not ask you

for anything again. Goodbye. I took the photograph of the two girls. Give them my love. I don't care what

This afterdinner note had a splotch on it not yet quite dry. He looked at Winifredthe splotch had clearly

come from her; and he checked the words: 'Good riddance!' Then it occurred to him that with this letter she

was entering that very state which he himself so earnestly desired to quitthe state of a Forsyte who was not

Winifred had turned away, and was taking a long sniff from a little goldtopped bottle. A dull

commiseration, together with a vague sense of injury, crept about Soames' heart. He had come to her to talk

of his own position, and get sympathy, and here was she in the same position, wanting of course to talk of it,

and get sympathy from him. It was always like that! Nobody ever seemed to think that he had troubles and

interests of his own. He folded up the letter with the splotch inside, and said:

"Do you think he's really gone, Soames? You see the state he was in when he wrote that."

Soames who, when he desired a thing, placated Providence by pretending that he did not think it likely to

Soames, whose good sense applauded his sister's acumen, said grudgingly: "Well, I'll go round. Have you

"I've told Emily," returned Winifred, who retained that 'chic' way of describing her mother. "Father would

Indeed, anything untoward was now sedulously kept from James. With another look round at the furniture, as

if to gauge his sister's exact position, Soames went out towards Piccadilly. The evening was drawing ina

touch of chill in the October haze. He walked quickly, with his close and concentrated air. He must get

through, for he wished to dine in Soho. On hearing from the hall porter at the Iseeum that Mr. Dartie had not

been in today, he looked at the trusty fellow and decided only to ask if Mr. George Forsyte was in the Club.

He was. Soames, who always looked askance at his cousin George, as one inclined to jest at his expense,

followed the page boy, slightly reassured by the thought that George had just lost his father. He must have

come in for about thirty thousand, be sides what he had under that settlement of Roger's, which had avoided

death duty. He found George in a bowwindow, staring out across a halfeaten plate of muffins. His tall,

bulky, black clothed figure loomed almost threatening, though preserving still the supernatural neatness of

"No, thanks," murmured Soames; and, nursing his hat, with the desire to say something suitable and

"Thanks," said George; "soso. Haven't seen you for ages. You never go racing. How's the City?"

"Flitted, made a bolt to Buenos Aires with the fair Lola. Good for Winifred and the little Darties. He's a

"Uncle James'll sleep in his bed now," resumed George; "I suppose he's had a lot off you, too."

"Ah! You saw him further," said George amicably. "He's a real rouser. Young Val will want a bit of looking

Again Soames nodded. "I must be getting back to her," he said; "she just wanted to know for certain. We may

"It's quite O.K.," said Georgeit was he who invented so many of those quaint sayings which have been

assigned to other sources. "He was drunk as a lord last night; but he went off all right this morning. His ship's

"'Mr. Montague Dartie, Poste Restante, Buenos Aires.' I should hurry up with the steps, if I were you. He

"Yes," said Soames; "but it's not always easy." Then, conscious from George's eyes that he had roused

reminiscence of his own affair, he got up, and held out his hand. George rose too.

"Remember me to Winifred.... You'll enter her for the Divorce Stakes straight off if you ask me."

Soames took a sidelong look back at him from the doorway. George had seated himself again and was staring

before him; he looked big and lonely in those black clothes. Soames had never known him so subdued. 'I

suppose he feels it in a way,' he thought. 'They must have about fifty thousand each, all told. They ought to

keep the estate together. If there's a war, house property will go down. Uncle Roger was a good judge,

though.' And the face of Annette rose before him in the darkening street; her brown hair and her blue eyes

with their dark lashes, her fresh lips and cheeks, dewy and blooming in spite of London, her perfect French

figure. 'Take steps!' he thought. Reentering Winifred's house he encountered Val, and they went in together.

An idea had occurred to Soames. His cousin Jolyon was Irene's trustee, the first step would be to go down

and see him at Robin Hill. Robin Hill! The oddthe very odd feeling those words brought back! Robin

Hillthe house Bosinney had built for him and Irenethe house they had never lived inthe fatal house!

And Jolyon lived there now! H'm! And suddenly he thought: 'They say he's got a boy at Oxford! Why not

take young Val down and introduce them! It's an excuse! Less baldvery much less bald!' So, as they went

"You've got a cousin at Oxford; you've never met him. I should like to take you down with me tomorrow to

On the threshold of the drawingroom he recalled with an effort that the steps he contemplated concerned

"It's quite true," he said; "he's gone to Buenos Aires, started this morningwe'd better have him shadowed

when he lands. I'll cable at once. Otherwise we may have a lot of expense. The sooner these things are done

the better. I'm always regretting that I didn't..." he stopped, and looked sidelong at the silent Winifred. "By

"He twisted my arm. Or would pointing a pistol count? Or being too drunk to undress himself, orNoI

"No," said Soames; "no! I wonder! Of course, there's legal separationwe can get that. But separation! Um!"

"That he can't touch you, or you him; you're both of you married and unmarried." And again he grunted.

What was it, in fact, but his own accursed position, legalised! No, he would not put her into that!

"It must be divorce," he said decisively;" failing cruelty, there's desertion. There's a way of shortening the two

years, now. We get the Court to give us restitution of conjugal rights. Then if he doesn't obey, we can bring a

suit for divorce in six months' time. Of course you don't want him back. But they won't know that. Still,

"Well," Soames murmured, "perhaps there isn't much risk so long as he's infatuated and got money. Don't say

Winifred sighed. In spite of all she had been through, the sense of loss was heavy on her. And this idea of not

paying his debts any more brought it home to her as nothing else yet had. Some richness seemed to have gone

out of life. Without her husband, without her pearls, without that intimate sense that she made a brave show

above the domestic whirlpool, she would now have to face the world. She felt bereaved indeed.

And into the chilly kiss he placed on her forehead, Soames put more than his usual warmth.

"I have to go down to Robin Hill tomorrow," he said, "to see young Jolyon on business. He's got a boy at

Oxford. I'd like to take Val with me and introduce him. Come down to 'The Shelter' for the weekend and

bring the children. Oh! by the way, no, that won't do; I've got some other people coming." So saying, he left

Of all quarters in the queer adventurous amalgam called London, Soho is perhaps least suited to the Forsyte

spirit. 'Soho, my wild one!' George would have said if he had seen his cousin going there. Untidy, full of

Greeks, Ishmaelites, cats, Italians, tomatoes, restaurants, organs, coloured stuffs, queer names, people looking

out of upper windows, it dwells remote from the British Body Politic. Yet has it haphazard proprietary

instincts of its own, and a certain possessive prosperity which keeps its rents up when those of other quarters

go down. For long years Soames' acquaintanceship with Soho had been confined to its Western bastion,

Wardour Street. Many bargains had he picked up there. Even during those seven years at Brighton after

Bosinney's death and Irene's flight, he had bought treasures there sometimes, though he had no place to put

them; for when the conviction that his wife had gone for good at last became firm within him, he had caused

It had sold within a weekthat desirable residence, in the shadow of whose perfection a man and a

Of a misty January evening, just before the board was taken down, Soames had gone there once more, and

stood against the Square railings, looking at its unlighted windows, chewing the cud of possessive memories

which had turned so bitter in the mouth. Why had she never loved him? Why? She had been given all she had

wanted, and in return had given him, for three long years, all he had wantedexcept, indeed, her heart. He

had uttered a little involuntary groan, and a passing policeman had glanced suspiciously at him who no longer

possessed the right to enter that green door with the carved brass knocker beneath the board 'For Sale!' A

choking sensation had attacked his throat, and he had hurried away into the mist. That evening he had gone to

Approaching Malta Street, Soho, and the Restaurant Bretagne, where Annette would be drooping her pretty

shoulders over her accounts, Soames thought with wonder of those seven years at Brighton. How had he

managed to go on so long in that town devoid of the scent of sweetpeas, where he had not even space to put

his treasures? True, those had been years with no time at all for looking at themyears of almost passionate

moneymaking, during which Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte had become solicitors to more limited

Companies than they could properly attend to. Up to the City of a morning in a Pullman car, down from the

City of an evening in a Pullman car. Law papers again after dinner, then the sleep of the tired, and up again

next morning. Saturday to Monday was spent at his Club in towncurious reversal of customary procedure,

based on the deep and careful instinct that while working so hard he needed sea air to and from the station

twice a day, and while resting must indulge his domestic affections. The Sunday visit to his family in Park

Lane, to Timothy's, and to Green Street; the occasional visits elsewhere had seemed to him as necessary to

health as sea air on weekdays. Even since his migration to Mapledurham he had main tained those habits

Whether Annette had produced the revolution in his outlook, or that outlook had produced Annette, he knew

no more than we know where a circle begins. 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 offensure, in fact, that he would not leave

offhad 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

restauranta risky pro ceeding, 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 peacockblue tubs containing little bay trees

in a recessed doorwayand 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 Brittanyware plates, and had asked of a trim waitress to see the

proprietor. They had shown him into a back room, where a girl was sitting at a simple bureau covered with

papers, and a small round, table was laid for two. The impression of cleanliness, order, and good taste was

confirmed when the girl got up, saying, "You wish to see Maman, Monsieur?" in a broken accent.

"Yes," Soames had answered, "I represent your landlord; in fact, I'm his son." "Won't you sit down, sir,

He was pleased that the girl seemed impressed, because it showed business instinct; and suddenly he noticed

that she was remarkably prettyso remarkably pretty that his eyes found a difficulty in leaving her face.

When she moved to put a chair for him, she swayed in a curious subtle way, as if she had been put together

by someone with a special secret skill; and her face and neck, which was a little bared, looked as fresh as if

they had been sprayed with dew. Probably at this moment Soames decided that the lease had not been

violated; though to himself and his father he based the decision on the efficiency of those illicit adaptations in

the building, on the signs of prosperity, and the obvious business capacity of Madame Lamotte. He did not,

however, neglect to leave certain matters to future consideration, which had necessitated further visits, so that

the little back room had become quite accustomed to his spare, not unsolid, but unobtrusive figure, and his

pale, chinny face with clipped moustache and dark hair not yet grizzling at the sides.

"Un Monsieur tres distingue," Madame Lamotte found him; and presently, "Tres amical, tres gentil,"

She was one of those generously built, finefaced, darkhaired Frenchwomen, whose every action and tone

of voice inspire perfect confidence in the thoroughness of their domestic tastes, their knowledge of cooking,

After those visits to the Restaurant Bretagne began, other visits ceasedwithout, indeed, any definite

decision, for Soames, like all Forsytes, and the great majority of their countrymen, was a born empiricist. But

it was this change in his mode of life which had gradually made him so definitely conscious that he desired to

alter his condition from that of the unmarried married man to that of the married man remarried.

Turning into Malta Street on this evening of early October, 1899, he bought a paper to see if there were any

afterdevelopment of the Dreyfus casea question which he had always found useful in making closer

acquaintanceship with Madame Lamotte and her daughter, who were Catholic and antiDreyfusard.

Scanning those columns, Soames found nothing French, but noticed a general fall on the Stock Exchange and

an ominous leader about the Transvaal. He entered, thinking: 'War's a certainty. I shall sell my consols.' Not

that he had many, personally, the rate of interest was too wretched; but he should advise his Companies

consols would assuredly go down. A look, as he passed the doorways of the restaurant, assured him that

business was good as ever, and this, which in April would have pleased him, now gave him a certain

uneasiness. If the steps which he had to take ended in his marrying Annette, he would rather see her mother

safely back in France, a move to which the prosperity of the Restaurant Bretagne might become an obstacle.

He would have to buy them out, of course, for French people only came to England to make money; and it

would mean a higher price. And then that peculiar sweet sensation at the back of his throat, and a slight

thumping about the heart, which he always experienced at the door of the little room, prevented his thinking

Going in, he was conscious of an abundant black skirt vanishing through the door into the restaurant, and of

Annette with her hands up to her hair. It was the attitude in which of all others he admired herso

"I just came in to talk to your mother about pulling down that partition. No, don't call her."

"Monsieur will have supper with us? It will be ready in ten minutes." Soames, who still held her hand, was

"You look so pretty tonight," he said, "so very pretty. Do you know how pretty you look, Annette?"

Annette made a little expressive gesture with her hands; a smile was crinkling her red lips untouched by

"Oh, I like London. Paris, of course. But London is better than Orleans, and the English country is so

Soames went through a moment of calculating struggle. Mapledurham! Dared he? After all, dared he go so

far as that, and show her what there was to look forward to! Still! Down there one could say things. In this

"I want you and your mother," he said suddenly, "to come for the afternoon next Sunday. My house is on the

river, it's not too late in this weather; and I can show you some good pictures. What do you say?"

He need say no more to her this evening, and risk giving himself away. But had he not already said too

much? Did one ask restaurant proprietors with pretty daughters down to one's country house without design?

Madame Lamotte would see, if Annette didn't. Well! there was not much that Madame did not see. Besides,

this was the second time he had stayed to supper with them; he owed them hospitality.

Walking home towards Park Lanefor he was staying at his father's with the impression of Annette's soft

clever hand within his own, his thoughts were pleasant, slightly sensual, rather puzzled. Take steps! What

steps? How? Dirty linen washed in public? Pah! With his reputation for sagacity, for farsightedness and the

clever extrication of others, he, who stood for proprietary interests, to become the plaything of that Law of

which he was a pillar! There was something revolting in the thought! Winifred's affair was bad enough! To

have a double dose of publicity in the family! Would not a liaison be better than thata liaison, and a son he

could adopt? But dark, solid, watchful, Madame Lamotte blocked the avenue of that vision. No! that would

not work. It was not as if Annette could have a real passion for him; one could not expect that at his age. If

her mother wished, if the worldly advantage were manifestly greatperhaps! If not, refusal would be certain.

Besides, he thought: 'I'm not a villain. I don't want to hurt her; and I don't want anything underhand. But I do

want her, and I want a son! There's nothing for it but divorcesomehow anyhowdivorce!' Under the

shadow of the planetrees, in the lamplight, he passed slowly along the railings of the Green Park. Mist clung

there among the bluish tree shapes, beyond range of the lamps. How many hundred times he had walked past

those trees from his father's house in Park Lane, when he was quite a young man; or from his own house in

Montpellier Square in those four years of married life! And, tonight, making up his mind to free himself if

he could of that long useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to walk on, in at Hyde Park Corner, out at

Knightsbridge Gate, just as he used to when going home to Irene in the old days. What could she be like

now?how had she passed the years since he last saw her, twelve years in all, seven already since Uncle

Jolyon left her that money? Was she still beautiful? Would he know her if he saw her? 'I've not changed

much,' he thought; 'I expect she has. She made me suffer.' He remembered suddenly one night, the first on

which he went out to dinner alonean old Malburian dinnerthe first year of their marriage. With what

eagerness he had hurried back; and, entering softly as a cat, had heard her playing. Opening the drawingroom

door noiselessly, he had stood watching the expression on her face, different from any he knew, so much

more open, so confiding, as though to her music she was giving a heart he had never seen. And he

remembered how she stopped and looked round, how her face changed back to that which he did know, and

what an icy shiver had gone through him, for all that the next moment he was fondling her shoulders. Yes,

she had made him suffer! Divorce! It seemed ridiculous, after all these years of utter separation! But it would

have to be. No other way! 'The question,' he thought with sudden realism, 'iswhich of us? She or me? She

deserted me. She ought to pay for it. There'll be someone, I suppose.' Involuntarily he uttered a little snarling

The butler himself opened the door, and closing it softly, detained Soames on the inner mat.

"The master's poorly, sir," he murmured. "He wouldn't go to bed till you came in. He's still in the diningroom.

"Nervous, sir, I think. Might be the funeral; might be Mrs. Dartie's comin' round this afternoon. I think he

"All right, Warmson, you can go to bed; I'll take him up myself." And he passed into the diningroom.

James was sitting before the fire, in a big armchair, with a camelhair shawl, very light and warm, over his

frockcoated shoulders, on to which his long white whiskers drooped. His white hair, still fairly thick,

glistened in the lamplight; a little moisture from his fixed, lightgrey eyes stained the cheeks, still quite well

coloured, and the long deep furrows running to the corners of the cleanshaven lips, which moved as if

mumbling thoughts. His long legs, thin as a crow's, in shepherd's plaid trousers, were bent at less than a right

angle, and on one knee a spindly hand moved continually, with fingers wide apart and glistening tapered

nails. Beside him, on a low stool, stood a halffinished glass of negus, bedewed with beads of heat. There he

had been sitting, with intervals for meals, all day. At eighty eight he was still organically sound, but

suffering terribly from the thought that no one ever told him anything. It is, indeed, doubtful how he had

become aware that Roger was being buried that day, for Emily had kept it from him. She was always keeping

things from him. Emily was only seventy! James had a grudge against his wife's youth. He felt sometimes

that he would never have married her if he had known that she would have so many years before her, when

he had so few. It was not natural. She would live fifteen or twenty years after he was gone, and might spend a

lot of money; she had always had extravagant tastes. For all he knew she might want to buy one of these

motorcars. Cicely and Rachel and Imogen and all the young peoplethey all rode those bicycles now and

went off Goodness knew where. And now Roger was gone. He didn't know couldn't tell! The family was

breaking up. Soames would know how much his uncle had left. Curiously he thought of Roger as Soames'

uncle not as his own brother. Soames! It was more and more the one solid spot in a vanishing world. Soames

was careful; he was a warm man; but he had no one to leave his money to. There it was! He didn't know! And

there was that fellow Chamberlain! For James' political principles had been fixed between '70 and '85 when

'that rascally Radical' had been the chief thorn in the side of property and he distrusted him to this day in spite

of his conversion; he would get the country into a mess and make money go down before he had done with it.

A stormy petrel of a chap! Where was Soames? He had gone to the funeral of course which they had tried to

keep from him. He knew that perfectly well; he had seen his son's trousers. Roger! Roger in his coffin! He

remembered how, when they came up from school together from the West, on the box seat of the old

Slowflyer in 1824, Roger had got into the 'boot' and gone to sleep. James uttered a thin cackle. A funny

fellowRogeran original! He didn't know! Younger than himself, and in his coffin! The family was

breaking up. There was Val going to the university; he never came to see him now. He would cost a pretty

penny up there. It was an extravagant age. And all the pretty pennies that his four grandchildren would cost

him danced before James' eyes. He did not grudge them the money, but he grudged terribly the risk which the

spending of that money might bring on them; he grudged the diminution of security. And now that Cicely had

married, she might be having children too. He didn't know couldn't tell! Nobody thought of anything but

spending money in these days, and racing about, and having what they called 'a good time.' A motorcar

went past the window. Ugly great lumbering thing, making all that racket! But there it was, the country

rattling to the dogs! People in such a hurry that they couldn't even care for stylea neat turnout like his

barouche and bays was worth all those newfangled things. And consols at 116! There must be a lot of

money in the country. And now there was this old Kruger! They had tried to keep old Kruger from him. But

he knew better; there would be a pretty kettle of fish out there! He had known how it would be when that

fellow Gladstonedead now, thank God! made such a mess of it after that dreadful business at Majuba. He

shouldn't wonder if the Empire split up and went to pot. And this vision of the Empire going to pot filled a

full quarter of an hour with qualms of the most serious character. He had eaten a poor lunch because of them.

But it was after lunch that the real disaster to his nerves occurred. He had been dozing when he became aware

of voiceslow voices. Ah! they never told him anything! Winifred's and her mother's. "Monty!" That fellow

Dartiealways that fellow Dartie! The voices had receded; and James had been left alone, with his ears

standing up like a hare's, and fear creeping about his inwards. Why did they leave him alone? Why didn't they

come and tell him? And an awful thought, which through long years had haunted him, concreted again

swiftly in his brain. Dartie had gone bankruptfraudulently bankrupt, and to save Winifred and the children,

heJames would have to pay! Could he could Soames turn him into a limited company? No, he couldn't!

There it was! With every minute before Emily came back the spectre fiercened. Why, it might be forgery!

With eyes fixed on the doubted Turner in the centre of the wall, James suffered tortures. He saw Dartie in the

dock, his grandchildren in the gutter, and himself in bed. He saw the doubted Turner being sold at Jobson's,

and all the majestic edifice of property in rags. He saw in fancy Winifred unfashionably dressed, and heard in

fancy Emily's voice saying: "Now, don't fuss, James!" She was always saying: "Don't fuss!" She had no

nerves; he ought never to have married a woman eighteen years younger than himself. Then Emily's real

The destruction of that fixed idea seemed to Emily all that mattered at the moment.

If she had said "He's gone to Mars" she could not have dealt James a more stunning blow; his imagination,

invested entirely in British securities, could as little grasp one place as the other.

Agitated within by Winifred's news, and goaded by the constant reiteration of this jeremiad, Emily said

"I paid for them," he said tremblingly; "he's a thief! II knew how it would be. He'll be the death of me; he

...." Words failed him and he sat quite still. Emily, who thought she knew him so well, was alarmed, and went

towards the sideboard where she kept some sal volatile. She could not see the tenacious Forsyte spirit

working in that thin, tremulous shape against the extravagance of the emotion called up by this outrage on

Forsyte principlesthe Forsyte spirit deep in there, saying: 'You mustn't get into a fantod, it'll never do. You

won't digest your lunch. You'll have a fit!'All unseen by her, it was doing better work in James than sal

"What was Winifred about," he said, "to let him take her pearls?" Emily perceived the crisis past.

"She can have mine," she said comfortably. "I never wear them. She'd better get a divorce."

"There you go!" said James. "Divorce! We've never had a divorce in the family. Where's Soames?"

"No, he won't," said James, almost fiercely; "he's at the funeral. You think I know nothing."

"Well," said Emily with calm, "you shouldn't get into such fusses when we tell you things." And plumping up

But James sat there seeing visionsof Winifred in the Divorce Court, and the family name in the papers; of

the earth falling on Roger's coffin; of Val taking after his father; of the pearls he had paid for and would

never see again; of money back at four per cent., and the country going to the dogs; and, as the afternoon

wore into evening, and teatime passed, and dinnertime, those visions became more and more mixed and

menacingof being told nothing, till he had nothing left of all his wealth, and they told him nothing of it.

Where was Soames? Why didn't he come in?... His hand grasped the glass of negus, he raised it to drink, and

saw his son standing there looking at him. A little sigh of relief escaped his lips, and putting the glass down,

A wave of assuagement passed over James' brain. Soames knew. Soames was the only one of them all who

had sense. Why couldn't he come and live at home? He had no son of his own. And he said plaintively:

Again Soames nodded; the mask of his countenance betrayed no understanding, but he went closer, and as if

"They sent their love to you at Timothy's," he said. "It went off all right. I've been to see Winifred. I'm going

James looked up; his long white whiskers quivered, his thin throat between the points of his collar looked

"Well, it's all right. There's nothing to worry about. Will you come up now?" and he put his hand under his

James obediently and tremulously raised himself, and together they went slowly across the room, which had a

"Goodnight, father," answered Soames. His hand stroked down the sleeve beneath the shawl; it seemed to

have almost nothing in it, so thin was the arm. And, turning away from the light in the opening doorway, he

Trees take little account of time, and the old oak on the upper lawn at Robin Hill looked no day older than

when Bosinney sprawled under it and said to Soames: "Forsyte, I've found the very place for your house."

Since then Swithin had dreamed, and old Jolyon died, beneath its branches. And now, close to the swing,

nolongeryoung Jolyon often painted there. Of all spots in the world it was perhaps the most sacred to him,

Contemplating its great girthcrinkled and a little mossed, but not yet hollowhe would speculate on the

passage of time. That tree had seen, perhaps, all real English history; it dated, he shouldn't wonder, from the

days of Elizabeth at least. His own fifty years were as nothing to its wood. When the house behind it, which

he now owned, was three hundred years of age instead of twelve, that tree might still be standing there, vast

and hollow for who would commit such sacrilege as to cut it down? A Forsyte might perhaps still be living

in that house, to guard it jealously. And Jolyon would wonder what the house would look like coated with

such age. Wistaria was already about its wallsthe new look had gone. Would its hold its own and keep the

dignity Bosinney had bestowed on it, or would the giant London have lapped it round and made it into an

asylum in the midst of a jerrybuilt wilderness? Often, within and without of it, he was persuaded that

Bosinney had been moved by the spirit when he built. He had put his heart into that house, indeed! It might

even become one of the 'homes of England'a rare achievement for a house in these degenerate days of

building. And the aesthetic spirit, moving hand in hand with his Forsyte sense of possessive continuity, dwelt

with pride and pleasure on his ownership thereof. There was the smack of reverence and ancestorworship (if

only for one ancestor) in his desire to hand this house down to his son and his son's son. His father had loved

the house, had loved the view, the grounds, that tree; his last years had been happy there, and no one had

lived there before him. These last eleven years at Robin Hill had formed in Jolyon's life as a painter, the

important period of success. He was now in the very van of watercolour art, hanging on the line

everywhere. His drawings fetched high prices. Specialising in that one medium with the tenacity of his breed,

he had 'arrived' rather late, but not too late for a member of the family which made a point of living for

ever. His art had really deepened and improved. In conformity with his position he had grown a short fair

beard, which was just beginning to grizzle, and hid his Forsyte chin; his brown face had lost the warped

expression of his ostracised periodhe looked, if anything, younger. The loss of his wife in 1894 had been

one of those domestic tragedies which turn out in the end for the good of all. He had, indeed, loved her to the

last, for his was an affectionate spirit, but she had become increasingly difficult: jealous of her stepdaughter

June, jealous even of her own little daughter Holly, and making ceaseless plaint that he could not love her, ill

as she was, and 'useless to everyone, and better dead.' He had mourned her sincerely, but his face had looked

younger since she died. If she could only have believed that she made him happy, how much happier would

June had never really got on well with her who had reprehensibly taken her own mother's place; and ever

since old Jolyon died she had been established in a sort of studio in London. But she had come back to Robin

Hill on her stepmother's death, and gathered the reins there into her small decided hands. Jolly was then at

Harrow; Holly still learning from Mademoiselle Beauce. There had been nothing to keep Jolyon at home, and

he had removed his grief and his paintbox abroad. There he had wandered, for the most part in Brittany, and

at last had fetched up in Paris. He had stayed there several months, and come back with the younger face and

the short fair beard. Essentially a man who merely lodged in any house, it had suited him perfectly that June

should reign at Robin Hill, so that he was free to go off with his easel where and when he liked. She was

inclined, it is true, to regard the house rather as an asylum for her proteges! but his own outcast days had

filled Jolyon for ever with sympathy towards an outcast, and June's 'lame ducks' about the place did not

annoy him. By all means let her have them downand feed them up; and though his slightly cynical humour

perceived that they ministered to his daughter's love of domination as well as moved her warm heart, he

never ceased to admire her for having so many ducks. He fell, indeed, year by year into a more and more

detached and brotherly attitude towards his own son and daughters, treating them with a sort of whimsical

equality. When he went down to Harrow to see Jolly, he never quite knew which of them was the elder, and

would sit eating cherries with him out of one paper bag, with an affectionate and ironical smile twisting up an

eyebrow and curling his lips a little. And he was always careful to have money in his pocket, and to be

modish in his dress, so that his son need not blush for him. They were perfect friends, but never seemed to

have occasion for verbal confidences, both having the competitive selfconsciousness of Forsytes. They

knew they would stand by each other in scrapes, but there was no need to talk about it. Jolyon had a striking

horror partly original sin, but partly the result of his early immoralityof the moral attitude. The most he

could ever have said to his son would have been: "Look here, old man; don't forget you're a gentleman," and

then have wondered whimsically whether that was not a snobbish sentiment. The great cricket match was

perhaps the most searching and awkward time they annually went through together, for Jolyon had been at

Eton. They would be particularly careful during that match, continually saying: "Hooray! Oh! hard luck, old

man!" or "Hooray! Oh! bad luck, Dad!" to each other, when some disaster at which their hearts bounded

happened to the opposing school. And Jolyon would wear a grey top hat, instead of his usual soft one, to save

his son's feelings, for a black top hat he could not stomach. When Jolly went up to Oxford, Jolyon went up

with him, amused, humble, and a little anxious not to discredit his boy amongst all these youths who seemed

so much more assured and old than himself. He often thought, 'Glad I'm a painter' for he had long dropped

underwriting at Lloyds'it's so innocuous. You can't look down on a painter you can't take him seriously

enough.' For Jolly, who had a sort of natural lordliness, had passed at once into a very small set, who secretly

amused his father. The boy had fair hair which curled a little, and his grandfather's deepset irongrey eyes.

He was wellbuilt and very upright, and always pleased Jolyon's aesthetic sense, so that he was a tiny bit

afraid of him, as artists ever are of those of their own sex whom they admire physically. On that occasion,

however, he actually did screw up his courage to give his son advice, and this was it:

"Look here, old man, you're bound to get into debt; mind you come to me at once. Of course, I'll always pay

them. But you might remember that one respects oneself more afterwards if one pays one's own way. And

"And there's just one other thing. I don't know much about morality and that, but there is this: It's always

worth while before you do anything to consider whether it's going to hurt another person more than is

Jolly had looked thoughtful, and nodded, and presently had squeezed his father's hand. And Jolyon had

thought: 'I wonder if I had the right to say that?' He always had a sort of dread of losing the dumb confidence

they had in each other; remembering how for long years he had lost his own father's, so that there had been

nothing between them but love at a great distance. He underestimated, no doubt, the change in the spirit of

the age since he himself went up to Cambridge in '65; and perhaps he underestimated, too, his boy's power of

understanding that he was tolerant to the very bone. It was that tolerance of his, and possibly his scepticism,

which ever made his relations towards June so queerly defensive. She was such a decided mortal; knew her

own mind so terribly well; wanted things so inexorably until she got themand then, indeed, often dropped

them like a hot potato. Her mother had been like that, whence had come all those tears. Not that his

incompatibility with his daughter was anything like what it had been with the first Mrs. Young Jolyon. One

could be amused where a daughter was concerned; in a wife's case one could not be amused. To see June set

her heart and jaw on a thing until she got it was all right, because it was never anything which interfered

fundamentally with Jolyon's libertythe one thing on which his jaw was also absolutely rigid, a considerable

jaw, under that short grizzling beard. Nor was there ever any necessity for real hearttoheart encounters.

One could break away into ironyas indeed he often had to. But the real trouble with June was that she had

never appealed to his aesthetic sense, though she might well have, with her redgold hair and her

vikingcoloured eyes, and that touch of the Berserker in her spirit. It was very different with Holly, soft and

quiet, shy and affectionate, with a playful imp in her somewhere. He watched this younger daughter of his

through the duckling stage with extraordinary interest. Would she come out a swan? With her sallow oval

face and her grey wistful eyes and those long dark lashes, she might, or she might not. Only this last year had

he been able to guess. Yes, she would be a swanrather a dark one, always a shy one, but an authentic swan.

She was eighteen now, and Mademoiselle Beauce was gonethe excellent lady had removed, after eleven

years haunted by her continuous reminiscences of the 'well brrred little Tayleurs,' to another family whose

bosom would now be agitated by her reminiscences of the 'wellbrrred little Forsytes.' She had taught Holly

Portraiture was not Jolyon's forte, but he had already drawn his younger daughter three times, and was

drawing her a fourth, on the afternoon of October 4th, 1899, when a card was brought to him which caused

To return from a long travel in Spain to a darkened house, to a little daughter bewildered with tears, to the

sight of a loved father lying peaceful in his last sleep, had never been, was never likely to be, forgotten by so

impressionable and warmhearted a man as Jolyon. A sense as of mystery, too, clung to that sad day, and

about the end of one whose life had been so wellordered, balanced, and aboveboard. It seemed incredible

that his father could thus have vanished without, as it were, announcing his intention, without last words to

his son, and due farewells. And those incoherent allusions of little Holly to 'the lady in grey,' of

Mademoiselle Beauce to a Madame Errant (as it sounded) involved all things in a mist, lifted a little when he

read his father's will and the codicil thereto. It had been his duty as executor of that will and codicil to inform

Irene, wife of his cousin Soames, of her life interest in fifteen thousand pounds. He had called on her to

explain that the existing investment in India Stock, earmarked to meet the charge, would produce for her the

interesting net sum of �430 odd a year, clear of income tax. This was but the third time he had seen his

cousin Soames' wifeif indeed she was still his wife, of which he was not quite sure. He remembered

having seen her sitting in the Botanical Gardens waiting for Bosinneya passive, fascinating figure,

reminding him of Titian's 'Heavenly Love,' and again, when, charged by his father, he had gone to

Montpellier Square on the afternoon when Bosinney's death was known. He still recalled vividly her sudden

appearance in the drawingroom doorway on that occasionher beautiful face, passing from wild eagerness

of hope to stony despair; remembered the compassion he had felt, Soames' snarling smile, his words, "We are

This third time he saw a face and form more beautifulfreed from that warp of wild hope and despair.

Looking at her, he thought: 'Yes, you are just what the Dad would have admired!' And the strange story of his

father's Indian summer became slowly clear to him. She spoke of old Jolyon with reverence and tears in her

eyes. "He was so wonderfully kind to me; I don't know why. He looked so beautiful and peaceful sitting in

that chair under the tree; it was I who first came on him sitting there, you know. Such a lovely day. I don't

think an end could have been happier. We should all like to go out like that." 'Quite right I' he had thought.

'We should all a like to go out in full summer with beauty stepping towards us across a lawn.' And looking

round the little, almost empty drawingroom, he had asked her what she was going to do now. "I am going to

live again a little, Cousin Jolyon. It's wonderful to have money of one's own. I've never had any. I shall keep

this flat, I think; I'm used to it; but I shall be able to go to Italy." Exactly!" Jolyon had murmured, looking at

her faintly smiling lips; and he had gone away thinking: 'A fascinating woman! What a waste! I'm glad the

Dad left her that money.' He had not seen her again, but every quarter he had signed her cheque, forwarding it

to her bank, with a note to the Chelsea flat to say that he had done so; and always he had received a note in

acknowledgment, generally from the flat, but sometimes from Italy; so that her personality had become

embodied in slightly scented grey paper, an upright fine handwriting, and the words, 'Dear Cousin Jolyon.'

Man of property that he now was, the slender cheque he signed often gave rise to the thought: 'Well, I

suppose she just manages'; sliding into a vague wonder how she was faring otherwise in a world of men not

wont to let beauty go unpossessed. At first Holly had spoken of her sometimes, but 'ladies in grey' soon fade

from children's memories; and the tightening of June's lips in those first weeks after her grandfather's death

whenever her former friend's name was mentioned, had discouraged allusion. Only once, indeed, had June

spoken definitely: "I've forgiven her. I'm frightfully glad she's independent now...."

On receiving Soames' card, Jolyon said to the maidfor he could not abide butlers" Show him into the

study, please, and say I'll be there in a minute"; and then he looked at Holly and asked:

Jolyon shook his head, and, changing his holland blouse for a coat, was silent, perceiving suddenly that such

history was not for those young ears. His face, in fact, became whimsical perplexity incarnate while he

Standing by the frenchwindow, looking out across the terrace at the oak tree, were two figures, middleaged

The elder figure turned. The meeting of those two Forsytes of the second generation, so much more

sophisticated than the first, in the house built for the one and owned and occupied by the other, was marked

by subtle defensiveness beneath distinct attempt at cordiality. 'Has he come about his wife?' Jolyon was

thinking; and Soames, 'How shall I begin?' while Val, brought to break the ice, stood negligently scrutinising

"This is Val Dartie," said Soames, "my sister's son. He's just going up to Oxford. I thought I'd like him to

"Holly's inif you could put up with a female relation, she'd show you round. You'll find her in the hall if

With another "Thanks, awfully!" Val vanished, leaving the two cousins with the ice unbroken.

Jolyon winced. He had been out of touch with the Forsyte family at large for twentysix years, but they were

connected in his mind with Frith's 'Derby Day' and Landseer prints. He had heard from June that Soames was

a connoisseur, which made it worse. He had become aware, too, of a curious sensation of repugnance.

"No," answered Soames between close lips, "not sinceas a matter of fact, it's about that I've come. You're

Jolyon nodded. He did not mean to give her address without permission. Soames seemed to divine his

"I don't know much about these thingsat least, I've forgotten," said Jolyon with a wry smile. He himself

had had to wait for death to grant him a divorce from the first Mrs. Jolyon. "Do you wish me to see her about

Soames raised his eyes to his cousin's face. "I suppose there's someone," he said.

"I don't know at all. I imagine you may have both lived as if the other were dead. It's usual in these cases."

Soames turned to the window. A few early fallen oakleaves strewed the terrace already, and were rolling

round in the wind. Jolyon saw the figures of Holly and Val Dartie moving across the lawn towards the

stables. 'I'm not going to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds,' he thought. ' I must act for her. The Dad

would have wished that.' And for a swift moment he seemed to see his father's figure in the old armchair, just

"Why he should have been I don't know," Soames answered without looking round. "She brought trouble to

your daughter June; she brought trouble to everyone. I gave her all she wanted. I would have given her

In Jolyon compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice. What was there in the fellow that made it

"I can go and see her, if you like," he said. "I suppose she might be glad of a divorce, but I know nothing."

"Yes, please go. As I say, I know her address; but I've no wish to see her." His tongue was busy with his lips,

"You'll have some tea?" said Jolyon, stifling the words: 'And see the house.' And he led the way into the hall.

When he had rung the bell and ordered tea, he went to his easel to turn his drawing to the wall. He could not

bear, somehow, that his work should be seen by Soames, who was standing there in the middle of the great

room which had been designed expressly to afford wall space for his own pictures. In his cousin's face, with

its unseizable family likeness to himself, and its chinny, narrow, concentrated look, Jolyon saw that which

moved him to the thought: 'That chap could never forget anythingnor ever give himself away. He's

When young Val left the presence of the last generation he was thinking: 'This is jolly dull! Uncle Soames

does take the bun. I wonder what this filly's like?' He anticipated no pleasure from her society; and suddenly

"I'm afraid you don't know me," he said. "My name's Val Dartie I'm once removed, second cousin,

Holly, whose slim brown hand remained in his because she was too shy to withdraw it, said:

"Tons. They're awfulmost of them. At least, I don't knowsome of them. One's relations always are,

Holly looked at himthe wistful candour in those grey eyes gave young Val a sudden feeling that he must

"I mean there are people and people," he added astutely. "Your dad looks awfully decent, for instance."

A flush mounted in Val's cheeksthat scene in the Pandemonium promenadethe dark man with the pink

carnation developing into his own father! "But you know what the Forsytes are," he said almost viciously.

Val resisted a desire to run his arm through hers. "Oh! no," he said, "let's go out. You'll see him quite soon

Holly led the way on to the terrace and down to the lawn without answering. How describe Jolly, who, ever

"Does he sit on you?" said Val shrewdly. "I shall be knowing him at Oxford. Have you got any horses?"

They passed under the oak tree, through a thin shrubbery, into the stableyard. There under a clocktower lay

a fluffy brownand white dog, so old that he did not get up, but faintly waved the tail curled over his back.

"That's Balthasar," said Holly; "he's so oldawfully old, nearly as old as I am. Poor old boy! He's devoted to

"No! but he's a darling," and she bent down to stroke the dog. Gentle and supple, with dark covered head and

slim browned neck and hands, she seemed to Val strange and sweet, like a thing slipped between him and all

"When grandfather died," she said, "he wouldn't eat for two days. He saw him die, you know."

In a loosebox stood a silver roan of about fifteen hands, with a long black tail and mane. "This is mine

"Ah!" said Val, "she's a jolly palfrey. But you ought to bang her tail. She'd look much smarter." Then

catching her wondering look, he thought suddenly: 'I don't knowanything she likes!' And he took a long

sniff of the stable air. "Horses are ripping, aren't they? My Dad ..." he stopped.

An impulse to unbosom himself almost overcame himbut not quite. "Oh! I don't know he's often gone a

mucker over them. I'm jolly keen on them tooriding and hunting. I like racing awfully, as well; I should

like to be a gentleman rider." And oblivious of the fact that he had but one more day in town, with two

"Oh yes! I simply love riding. But there's Jolly's horse; why don't you ride him? Here he is. We could go after

He had imagined them immaculate before her eyes in high brown boots and Bedford cords.

"I don't much like riding his horse," he said. "He mightn't like it. Besides, Uncle Soames wants to get back, I

expect. Not that I believe in buckling under to him, you know. You haven't got an uncle, have you? This is

rather a good beast," he added, scrutinising Jolly's horse, a dark brown, which was showing the whites of its

"No; I don't know that I want to hunt. It must be awfully exciting, of course; but it's cruel, isn't it? June says

"My sistermy halfsister, you knowmuch older than me." She had put her hands up to both cheeks of

Jolly's horse, and was rubbing her nose against its nose with a gentle snuffling noise which seemed to have an

hypnotic effect on the animal. Val contemplated her cheek resting against the horse's nose, and her eyes

They returned to the house less talkative, followed this time by the dog Balthasar, walking more slowly than

"This is a ripping place," said Val from under the oak tree, where they had paused to allow the dog Balthasar

"Yes," said Holly, and sighed. "Of course I want to go everywhere. I wish I were a gipsy."

"Yes, gipsies are jolly," replied Val, with a conviction which had just come to him; "you're rather like one,

"To go madrabbiting everywhere and see everything, and live in the openoh! wouldn't it be fun?"

When they reentered the hall gallery the sight of two middleaged Forsytes drinking tea together had its

magical effect, and they became quite silent. It was, indeed, an impressive spectacle. The two were seated

side by side on an arrangement in marqueterie which looked like three silvery pink chairs made one, with a

low teatable in front of them. They seemed to have taken up that position, as far apart as the seat would

permit, so that they need not look at each other too much; and they were eating and drinking rather than

talkingSoames with his air of despising the teacake as it disappeared, Jolyon of finding himself slightly

amusing. To the casual eye neither would have seemed greedy, but both were getting through a good deal of

sustenance. The two young ones having been supplied with food, the process went on silent and absorbative,

"We're a wonderful family, aren't we? The other day I was calculating the average age of the ten old Forsytes

from my father's family Bible. I make it eightyfour already, and five still living. They ought to beat the

Soames smiled. 'Do you really think I shall admit that I'm not their equal'; he seemed to be saying, 'or that

"We may live to their age, perhaps," pursued Jolyon, "but self consciousness is a handicap, you know, and

that's the difference between us. We've lost conviction. How and when selfconsciousness was born I never

can make out. My father had a little, but I don't believe any other of the old Forsytes ever had a scrap. Never

to see yourself as others see you, it's a wonderful preservative. The whole history of the last century is in the

difference between us. And between us and you," he added, gazing through a ring of smoke at Val and Holly,

uncomfortable under his quizzical regard, "there'll beanother difference. I wonder what."

At the front door he gave Holly's slim brown hand a long and surreptitious squeeze.

"Look out for me tomorrow," he whispered; "three o'clock. I'll wait for you in the road; it'll save time. We'll

have a ripping ride." He gazed back at her from the lodge gate, and, but for the principles of a man about

town, would have waved his hand. He felt in no mood to tolerate his uncle's conversation. But he was not in

The yellow leaves came down about those two walking the mile and a half which Soames had traversed so

often in those longago days when he came down to watch with secret pride the building of the housethat

house which was to have been the home of him and her from whom he was now going to seek release. He

looked back once, up that endless vista of autumn lane between the yellowing hedges. What an age ago! "I

don't want to see her," he had said to Jolyon. Was that true? 'I may have to,' he thought; and he shivered,

seized by one of those queer shudderings that they say mean footsteps on one's grave. A chilly world! A

queer world! And glancing sidelong at his nephew, he thought: 'Wish I were his age! I wonder what she's like

When those two were gone Jolyon did not return to his painting, for daylight was failing, but went to the

study, craving unconsciously a revival of that momentary vision of his father sitting in the old leather chair

with his knees crossed and his straight eyes gazing up from under the dome of his massive brow. Often in this

little room, cosiest in the house, Jolyon would catch a moment of communion with his father. Not, indeed,

that he had definitely any faith in the persistence of the human spiritthe feeling was not so logicalit was,

rather, an atmospheric impact, like a scent, or one of those strong animistic impressions from forms, or

effects of light, to which those with the artist's eye are especially prone. Here onlyin this little unchanged

room where his father had spent the most of his waking hourscould be retrieved the feeling that he was not

quite gone, that the steady counsel of that old spirit and the warmth of his masterful lovability endured.

What would his father be advising now, in this sudden recrudescence of an old tragedywhat would he say

to this menace against her to whom he had taken such a fancy in the last weeks of his life? 'I must do my best

for her,' thought Jolyon; 'he left her to me in his will. But what is the best?'

And as if seeking to regain the sapience, the balance and shrewd common sense of that old Forsyte, he sat

down in the ancient chair and crossed his knees. But he felt a mere shadow sitting there; nor did any

inspiration come, while the fingers of the wind tapped on the darkening panes of the frenchwindow.

'Go and see her?' he thought, 'or ask her to come down here? What's her life been? What is it now, I wonder?

Beastly to rake up things at this time of day.' Again the figure of his cousin standing with a hand on a front

door of a fine olivegreen leaped out, vivid, like one of those figures from oldfashioned clocks when the

hour strikes; and his words sounded in Jolyon's ears clearer than any chime: "I manage my own affairs. I've

told you once, I tell you again: We are not at home." The repugnance he had then felt for Soamesfor his

flatcheeked, shaven face full of spiritual bulldoggedness; for his spare, square, sleek figure slightly

crouched as it were over the bone he could not digest came now again, fresh as ever, nay, with an odd

increase. 'I dislike him,' he thought, 'I dislike him to the very roots of me. And that's lucky; it'll make it easier

for me to back his wife.' Halfartist, and halfForsyte, Jolyon was constitutionally averse from what he

termed 'ructions'; unless angered, he conformed deeply to that classic description of the shedog, 'Er'd ruther

run than fight.' A little smile became settled in his beard. Ironical that Soames should come down hereto

this house, built for himself! How he had gazed and gaped at this ruin of his past intention; furtively nosing at

the walls and stairway, appraising everything! And intuitively Jolyon thought: 'I believe the fellow even now

would like to be living here. He could never leave off longing for what he once owned! Well, I must act,

The old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower so wonderfully was setting in a sky orange

with coming storms. Rumours of war added to the briskness of a London turbulent at the close of the summer

holidays. And the streets to Jolyon, who was not often up in town, had a feverish look, due to these new

motor cars and cabs, of which he disapproved aesthetically. He counted these vehicles from his hansom, and

made the proportion of them one in twenty. 'They were one in thirty about a year ago,' he thought; 'they've

come to stay. Just so much more rattling round of wheels and general stink'for he was one of those rather

rare Liberals who object to anything new when it takes a material form; and he instructed his driver to get

down to the river quickly, out of the traffic, desiring to look at the water through the mellowing screen of

planetrees. At the little block of flats which stood back some fifty yards from the Embankment, he told the

The effect of a settled if very modest income was at once apparent to him remembering the threadbare

refinement in that tiny flat eight years ago when he announced her good fortune. Everything was now fresh,

dainty, and smelled of flowers. The general effect was silvery with touches of black, hydrangea colour, and

gold. 'A woman of great taste,' he thought. Time had dealt gently with Jolyon, for he was a Forsyte. But with

Irene Time hardly seemed to deal at all, or such was his impression. She appeared to him not a day older,

standing there in molecoloured velvet corduroy, with soft dark eyes and dark gold hair, with outstretched

Jolyon ran his hands through his hair, whose thickness was still a comfort to him.

"I'm ancient, but I don't feel it. That's one thing about paint ing, it keeps you young. Titian lived to

ninetynine, and had to have plague to kill him off. Do you know, the first time I ever saw you I thought of a

"By someone who came up to you." He was looking at her hardily, but her face did not change; and she said

H'm! a bitter little saying! People who don't live! But an opening, and he took it. "You remember my Cousin

"I?" The word seemed startled out of her. "After twelve years? It's rather late. Won't it be difficult?"

What did he feel at the simplicity and candour of those words? Relief, surprise, pity! Venus for twelve years

"I should love." In that simple answer she seemed to sum up the whole philosophy of one on whom the world

"Only that I'm sorry he's not free. He had his chance once. I don't know why he didn't take it."

"Because he was a Forsyte; we never part with things, you know, unless we want something in their place;

"Of course, I'm a bit of a mongrelnot quite a pure Forsyte. I never take the halfpennies off my cheques, I

Jolyon gazed into his hat, his embarrassment was increasing fast; so was his admiration, his wonder, and his

"Well," he said, "I shall have to see Soames. If there's anything I can do for you I'm always at your service.

You must think of me as a wretched substitute for my father. At all events I'll let you know what happens

"You see, he has a lot to lose; and I have nothing. I should like him to be free; but I don't see what I can do."

"Nor I at the moment," said Jolyon, and soon after took his leave. He went down to his hansom. Halfpast

"To the Poultry," he called through the trap. In front of the Houses of Parliament and in Whitehall,

newsvendors were calling, "Grave situation in the Transvaal!" but the cries hardly roused him, absorbed in

recollection of that very beautiful figure, of her soft dark glance, and the words: "I have never had one since."

What on earth did such a woman do with her life, backwatered like this? Solitary, unprotected, with every

man's hand against her or ratherreaching out to grasp her at the least sign. And year after year she went on

'Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte,' in black letters on a ground the colour of peasoup, spurred him to a sort of

vigour, and he went up the stone stairs muttering: "Fusty musty ownerships! Well, we couldn't do without

The youth looked at him curiously, never having seen a Forsyte with a beard, and vanished.

The offices of 'Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte' had slowly absorbed the offices of 'Tooting and Bowles,' and

The firm consisted now of nothing but Soames and a number of managing and articled clerks. The complete

retirement of James some six years ago had accelerated business, to which the final touch of speed had been

imparted when Bustard dropped off, worn out, as many believed, by the suit of 'Fryer versus Forsyte,' more in

Chancery than ever and less likely to benefit its beneficiaries. Soames, with his saner grasp of actualities, had

never permitted it to worry him; on the contrary, he had long perceived that Providence had presented him

When Jolyon entered, his cousin was drawing out a list of holdings in Consols, which in view of the rumours

of war he was going to advise his companies to put on the market at once, before other companies did the

"How are you? Just one minute. Sit down, won't you?" And having entered three amounts, and set a ruler to

keep his place, he turned towards Jolyon, biting the side of his flat forefinger....

"She has remained faithful to memory." Having said that, Jolyon was ashamed. His cousin had flushed a

"I was to tell you she is sorry you are not free. Twelve years is a long time. You know your law, and what

chance it gives you." Soames uttered a curious little grunt, and the two remained a full minute without

speaking. 'Like wax!' thought Jolyon, watching that close face, where the flush was fast subsiding. 'He'll

never give me a sign of what he's thinking, or going to do. Like wax!' And he transferred his gaze to a plan of

that flourishing town, 'By Street on Sea,' the future existence of which lay exposed on the wall to the

possessive instincts of the firm's clients. The whim sical thought flashed through him: 'I wonder if I shall get

a bill of costs for this"To attending Mr. Jolyon Forsyte in the matter of my divorce, to receiving his

account of his visit to my wife, and to advising him to go and see her again, sixteen and eightpence."'

Suddenly Soames said: "I can't go on like this. I tell you, I can't go on like this." His eyes were shifting from

side to side, like an animal's when it looks for way of escape. 'He really suffers,' thought Jolyon; 'I've no

"Surely," he said gently, "it lies with yourself. A man can always put these things through if he'll take it on

Soames turned square to him, with a sound which seemed to come from somewhere very deep.

Jolyon could only shrug his shoulders. His reason agreed, his instinct rebelled; he could not have said why.

"Your father," went on Soames, "took an interest in herwhy, goodness knows! And I suppose you do too?"

he gave Jolyon a sharp look. "It seems to me that one only has to do another person a wrong to get all the

sympathy. I don't know in what way I was to blame I've never known. I always treated her well. I gave her

Again Jolyon's reason nodded; again his instinct shook its head. 'What is it?' he thought; 'there must be

In a flash the thought went through his listener: 'There it is! Ownerships! Well, we all own things.

"I beg your pardon," replied Jolyon; " I've told you what she said. It was explicit."

"My experience has not been one to promote blind confidence in her word. We shall see."

"Goodbye," returned Soames; and Jolyon went out trying to understand the look, halfstartled,

halfmenacing, on his cousin's face. He sought Waterloo Station in a disturbed frame of mind, as though the

skin of his moral being had been scraped; and all the way down in the train he thought of Irene in her lonely

flat, and of Soames in his lonely ofce, and of the strange paralysis of life that lay on them both. 'In chancery!'

The keeping of engagements had not as yet been a conspicuous feature in the life of young Val Dartie, so that

when he broke two and kept one; it was the latter event which caused him, if anything, the greater surprise,

while jogging back to town from Robin Hill after his ride with Holly. She had been even prettier than he had

thought her yesterday, on her silverroan, longtailed 'palfrey'; and it seemed to him, selfcritical in the

brumous October gloaming and the outskirts of London, that only his boots had shone throughout their

twohour companionship. He took out his new gold 'hunter'present from Jamesand looked not at the

time, but at sections of his face in the glittering back of its opened case. He had a temporary spot over one

eyebrow, and it displeased him, for it must have displeased her. Crum never had any spots. Together with

Crum rose the scene in the promenade of the Pandemonium. Today he had not had the faintest desire to

unbosom himself to Holly about his father. His father lacked poetry, the stirrings of which he was feeling for

the first time in his nineteen years. The Liberty, with Cynthia Dark, that almost mythical embodiment of

rapture; the Pandemonium, with the woman of uncertain ageboth seemed to Val completely 'off,' fresh

from communion with this new, shy, darkhaired young cousin of his. She rode 'Jolly well,' too, so that it had

been all the more flattering that she had let him lead her where he would in the long gallops of Richmond

Park, though she knew them so much better than he did. Looking back on it all, he was mystified by the

barrenness of his speech; he felt that he could say 'an awful lot of fetching things' if he had but the chance

again, and the thought that he must go back to Littlehampton on the morrow, and to Oxford on the twelfth

'to that beastly exam,' toowithout the faintest chance of first seeing her again, caused darkness to settle on

his spirit even more quickly than on the evening. He should write to her, however, and she had promised to

answer. Perhaps, too, she would come up to Oxford to see her brother. That thought was like the first star,

which came out as he rode into Padwick's livery stables in the purlieus of Sloane Square. He got off and

stretched himself luxuriously, for he had ridden some twentyfive good miles. The Dartie within him made

him chaffer for five minutes with young Padwick concerning the favourite for the Cambridgeshire; then with

the words, "Put the gee down to my account," he walked away, a little wide at the knees, and flipping his

boots with his knotty little cane. 'I don't feel a bit inclined to go out,' he thought. 'I wonder if mother will

stand fizz for my last night!' With 'fizz' and recollection, he could well pass a domestic evening.

When he came down, speckless after his bath, he found his mother scrupulous in a low evening dress, and, to

his annoyance, his Uncle Soames. They stopped talking when he came in; then his uncle said:

At those words, which meant something about his father, of course, Val's first thought was of Holly. Was it

"Your father," she said in her fashionably appointed voice, while her fingers plucked rather pitifully at

seagreen brocade, "your father, my dear boy, hasis not at Newmarket; he's on his way to South America.

Val looked from her to Soames. Left them! Was he sorry? Was he fond of his father? It seemed to him that he

did not know. Then, suddenlyas at a whiff of gardenias and cigarshis heart twitched within him, and he

was sorry. One's father belonged to one, could not go off in this fashionit was not done! Nor had he always

been the 'bounder' of the Pandemonium promenade. There were precious memories of tailors' shops and

"But why?" he said. Then, as a sportsman himself, was sorry he had asked. The mask of his mother's face was

Val uttered a queer little grunt, and looked quickly at his uncle that uncle whom he had been taught to look

on as a guarantee against the consequences of having a father, even against the Dartie blood in his own veins.

So vividly before him had come recollection of his own eyes glued to the unsavoury details of many a

"Can't it be done quietly somehow? It's so disgusting forfor mother, andand everybody."

Himself, the girls, their name tarnished in the sight of his schoolfellows and of Crum, of the men at Oxford,

Thus brought face to face with so much of her own feeling by the one she loved best in the world, Winifred

rose from the Empire chair in which she had been sitting. She saw that her son would be against her unless he

was told everything; and, yet, how could she tell him? Thus, still plucking at the green' brocade, she stared at

Soames. Val, too, stared at Soames. Surely this embodiment of respectability and the sense of property could

Soames slowly passed a little inlaid paperknife over the smooth surface of a marqueterie table; then, without

"You don't understand what your mother has had to put up with these twenty years. This is only the last

Winifred was silent. If he were not told, he would be against her! Yet, how dreadful to be told such things of

"He has always been a burden round your mother's neck. She has paid his debts over and over again; he has

often been drunk, abused and threatened her; and now he is gone to Buenos Aires with a dancer." And, as if

In the boy, the Dartie and the Forsyte were struggling. For debts, drink, dancers, he had a certain sympathy;

but the pearlsno! That was too much! And suddenly he found his mother's hand squeezing his.

"You see," he heard Soames say, "we can't have it all begin over again. There's a limit; we must strike while

"Butyou'renever going to bring out that about the pearls! I couldn't stand thatI simply couldn't!"

"No, no, Valoh no! That's only to show you how impossible your father is!" And his uncle nodded.

Somewhat assuaged, Val took out a cigarette. His father had bought him that thin curved case. Oh! it was

"Can't mother be protected without?" he said. "I could look after her. It could always be done later if it was

"You don't know what you're talking of; nothing's so fatal as delay in such matters."

His voice had the ring of exasperation. Val regarded him round eyed, never having known his uncle express

any sort of feeling. Oh! Yeshe remembered nowthere had been an Aunt Irene, and something had

happenedsomething which people kept dark; he had heard his father once use an unmentionable word of

"I don't want to speak ill of your father," Soames went on doggedly, "but I know him well enough to be sure

that he'll be back on your mother's hands before a year's over. You can imagine what that will mean to her

In spite of himself, Val was impressed; and, happening to look at his mother's face, he got what was perhaps

his first real insight into the fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered most.

"All right, mother," he said; "we'll back you up. Only I'd like to know when it'll be. It's my first term, you

"Oh! my dear boy," murmured Winifred, "it is a bore for you." So, by habit, she phrased what, from the

expression of her face, was the most poignant regret. "When will it be, Soames?"

'What the deuce is that?' thought Val. 'What silly brutes lawyers are! Not for months! I know one thing: I'm

Though it was his last night, Winifred nodded almost gratefully; they both felt that they had gone quite far

Val sought the misty freedom of Green Street, reckless and depressed. And not till he reached Piccadilly did

he discover that he had only eighteenpence. One couldn't dine off eighteenpence, and he was very hungry.

He looked longingly at the windows of the Iseeum Club, where he had often eaten of the best with his father!

Those pearls! There was no getting over them! But the more he brooded and the further he walked the

hungrier he naturally became. Short of trailing home, there were only two places where he could gohis

grandfather's in Park Lane, and Timothy's in the Bayswater Road. Which was the less deplorable? At his

grandfather's he would probably get a better dinner on the spur of the moment. At Timothy's they gave you a

jolly good feed when they expected you, not otherwise. He decided on Park Lane, not unmoved by the

thought that to go up to Oxford without affording his grandfather a chance to tip him was hardly fair to either

of them. His mother would hear he had been there, of course, and might think it funny; but he couldn't help

"They're just going in, Master Val. Mr. Forsyte will be very glad to see you. He was saying at lunch that he

"I say," Val grumbled, taking off his overcoat, "I'm not at school any more, you know."

Warmson, not without a sense of humour, opened the door beyond the stag'shorn coat stand, with the words:

A warm embrace, a "Well, Val!" from Emily, and a rather quavery "So there you are at last!" from James,

"Why didn't you let us know? There's only saddle of mutton. Champagne, Warmson," said Emily. And they

At the great diningtable, shortened to its utmost, under which so many fashionable legs had rested, James

sat at one end, Emily at the other, Val halfway between them; and something of the loneliness of his

grandparents, now that all their four children were flown, reached the boy's spirit. 'I hope I shall kick the

bucket long before I'm as old as grandfather,' he thought. 'Poor old chap, he's as thin as a rail!' And lowering

his voice while his grandfather and Warmson were in discussion about sugar in the soup, he said to Emily:

"Uncle Soames was there when I left. I say, isn't there anything to be done to prevent a divorce? Why is he so

"About Val's college," returned Emily. "Young Pariser was there, James; you rememberhe nearly broke

James muttered that he did not knowVal must look after himself up there, or he'd get into bad ways. And

he looked at his grandson with gloom, out of which affection distrustfully glimmered.

By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of insecurity for his grandchildren.

"Well," said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over, "you'll have a good allowance; but you must

Val sighed. He had hoped for four, and been afraid of three. "I don't know what your young cousin has," said

"I?" replied James, flustered. "I've got so many expenses. Your father...." and he was silent.

"Cousin Jolyon's got an awfully jolly place. I went down there with Uncle Soamesripping stables."

"Ah!" murmured James profoundly. "That houseI knew how it would be!" And he lapsed into gloomy

meditation over his fishbones. His son's tragedy, and the deep cleavage it had caused in the Forsyte family,

had still the power to draw him down into a whirlpool of doubts and misgivings. Val, who hankered to talk of

"Was that the house built for Uncle Soames?" And, receiving her nod, went on: "I wish you'd tell me about

him, Granny. What became of Aunt Irene? Is she still going? He seems awfully workedup about something

"What's that?" he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his lips. "Who's been seeing her? I knew we hadn't

"There you go," he said. "I might die before you'd tell me of it. Is Soames getting a divorce?"

James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers together on the skin and bone of it.

"Sheshe was always...." he said, and with that enigmatic remark the conversation lapsed, for Warmson had

returned. But later, when the saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet, savoury, and dessert, and Val

had received a cheque for twenty pounds and his grandfather's kisslike no other kiss in the world, from lips

pushed out with a sort of fearful suddenness, as if yielding to weaknesshe returned to the charge in the

"Tell us about Uncle Soames, Granny. Why is he so keen on mother's getting a divorce?"

"Your Uncle Soames," said Emily, and her voice had in it an exaggerated assurance, "is a lawyer, my dear

"Is he?" muttered Val. "But what did become of Aunt Irene? I remember she was jolly goodlooking."

"Well, I don't want everybody at Oxford to know about our affairs," ejaculated Val; "it's a brutal idea. Why

Emily sighed. She had always lived rather in an atmosphere of divorce, owing to her fashionable

proclivitiesso many of those whose legs had been under her table having gained a certain notor iety.

When, however, it touched her own family, she liked it no better than other people. But she was eminently

practical, and a woman of courage, who never pursued a shadow in preference to its substance.

"Your mother," she said, "will be happier if she's quite free, Val. Goodnight, my dear boy; and don't wear

loud waistcoats up at Oxford, they're not the thing just now. Here's a little present."

With another five pounds in his hand, and a little warmth in his heart, for he was fond of his grandmother, he

went out into Park Lane. A wind had cleared the mist, the autumn leaves were rustling, and the stars were

shining. With all that money in his pocket an impulse to 'see life' beset him; but he had not gone forty yards

in the direction of Piccadilly when Holly's shy face, and her eyes with an imp dancing in their gravity, came

up before him, and his hand seemed to be tingling again from the pressure of her warm gloved hand. 'No,

It was full late for the river, but the weather was lovely, and summer lingered below the yellowing leaves.

Soames took many looks at the day from his riverside garden near Mapledurham that Sunday morning.

With his own hands he put flowers about his little houseboat, and equipped the punt, in which, after lunch,

he proposed to take them on the river. Placing those Chineselooking cushions, he could not tell whether or

no he wished to take Annette alone. She was so very prettycould he trust himself not to say irrevocable

words, passing beyond the limits of discretion? Roses on the veranda were still in bloom, and the hedges

evergreen, so that there was almost nothing of middleaged autumn to chill the mood; yet was he nervous,

fidgety, strangely distrustful of his powers to steer just the right course. This visit had been planned to

produce in Annette and her mother a due sense of his possessions, so that they should be ready to receive

with respect any overture might later be disposed to make. He dressed with great care, making himself neither

too young nor too old, very thankful that his hair was still thick and smooth and had no grey in it. Three times

he went up to his picturegallery. If they had any knowledge at all, they must see at once that his collection

alone was worth at least thirty thousand pounds. He minutely inspected, too, the pretty bedroom overlooking

the river where they would take off their hats. It would be her bedroom ifif the matter went through, and

she became his wife. Going up to the dressingtable he passed his hand over the lilaccoloured pincushion,

into which were stuck all kinds of pins; a bowl of potpourri exhaled a scent that made his head turn just a

little. His wife! If only the whole thing could be settled out of hand, and there was not the nightmare of this

divorce to be gone through first; and with gloom puckered on his forehead, he looked out at the river shining

beyond the roses and the lawn. Madame Lamotte would never resist this prospect for her child; Annette

would never resist her mother. If only he were free! He drove to the station to meet them. What taste French

women had! Madame Lamotte was in black with touches of lilac colour, Annette in greyish lilac linen, with

cream coloured gloves and hat. Rather pale she looked and Londony; and her blue eyes were demure.

Waiting for them to come down to lunch, Soames stood in the open frenchwindow of the diningroom

moved by that sensuous delight in sunshine and flowers and trees which only came to the full when youth

and beauty were there to share it with one. He had ordered the lunch with intense consideration; the wine was

a very special Sauterne, the whole appointments of the meal perfect, the coffee served on the veranda

superexcellent. Madame Lamotte accepted creme de menthe; Annette refused. Her manners were charming,

with just a suspicion of 'the conscious beauty' creeping into them. 'Yes,' thought Soames, 'another year of

Madame was in sedate French raptures. "Adorable! Le soleil est si bon! How everything is chic, is it not,

Annette? Monsieur is a real Monte Cristo." Annette murmured assent, with a look up at Soames which he

could not read. He proposed a turn on the river. But to punt two persons when one of them looked so

ravishing on those Chinese cushions was merely to suffer from a sense of lost opportunity; so they went but a

short way towards Pangbourne, drifting slowly back, with every now and then an autumn leaf dropping on

Annette or on her mother's black amplitude. And Soames was not happy, worried by the thought:

'Howwhenwherecan I saywhat?' They did not yet even know that he was married. To tell them he

was married might jeopardise his every chance; yet, if he did not definitely make them understand that he

wished for Annette's hand, it would be dropping into some other clutch before he was free to claim it.

Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British could not abandon their legitimate commercial

"Ah! that!" But Madame Lamotte found that the English were a little hypocrite. They were talking of justice

and the Uitlanders, not of business. Monsieur was the first who had spoken to her of that.

"The Boers are only halfcivilised," remarked Soames; "they stand in the way of progress. It will never do to

What a strange word! "Soames became eloquent, roused by these threats to the principle of possession, and

stimulated by Annette's eyes fixed on him. He was delighted when presently she said:

"Of course," he said, "we must act with moderation. I'm no jingo. We must be firm without bullying. Will

you come up and see my pictures?" Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon perceived that

they knew nothing. They passed his last Mauve, that remarkable study of a 'Haycart going Home,' as if it

were a lithograph. He waited almost with awe to see how they would view the jewel of his collectionan

Israels whose price he had watched ascending till he was now almost certain it had reached top value, and

would be better on the market again. They did not view it at all. This was a shock; and yet to have in Annette

a virgin taste to form would be better than to have the silly, halfbaked pre dilections of the English

middleclass to deal with. At the end of the gallery was a Meissonier of which he was rather ashamed

"Meissonier! Ah! What a jewel!" Soames took advantage of that moment. Very gently touching Annette's

She did not shrink, did not respond; she looked at him full, looked down, and murmured:

So pretty she was, so selfpossessedshe frightened him. Those cornflowerblue eyes, the turn of that

creamy neck, her delicate curvesshe was a standing temptation to indiscretion! No! No! One must be sure

of one's groundmuch surer! 'If I hold off,' he thought, 'it will tantalise her.' And he crossed over to Madame

"Yes, that's quite a good example of his later work. You must come again, Madame, and see them lighted up.

Enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? By moonlight too, the river must be ravishing!

Sentimental! That blackrobed, comely, substantial Frenchwoman of the world! And suddenly he was certain

as he could be that there was no sentiment in either of them. All the better. Of what use sentiment? And

He drove to the station with them, and saw them into the train. To the tightened pressure of his hand it

seemed that Annette's fingers responded just a little; her face smiled at him through the dark.

He went back to the carriage, brooding. "Go on home, Jordan," he said to the coachman; "I'll walk." And he

strode out into the darkening lanes, caution and the desire of possession playing seesaw within him. 'Bon

soir, monsieur!' How softly she had said it. To know what was in her mind! The Frenchthey were like

catsone could tell nothing! Buthow pretty! What a perfect young thing to hold in one's arms! What a

mother for his heir! And he thought, with a smile, of his family and their surprise at a French wife, and their

The, poplars sighed in the darkness; an owl hooted. Shadows deepened in the water. 'I will and must be free,'

he thought. 'I won't hang about any longer. I'll go and see Irene. If you want things done, do them yourself. I

must live againlive and move and have my being.' And in echo to that queer biblicality church bells

On a Tuesday evening after dining at his club Soames set out to do what required more courage and perhaps

less delicacy than anything he had yet undertaken in his lifesave perhaps his birth, and one other action. He

chose the evening, indeed, partly because Irene was more likely to be in, but mainly because he had failed to

find sufficient resolution by daylight, had needed wine to give him extra daring.

He left his hansom on the Embankment, and walked up to the Old Church, uncertain of the block of flats

where he knew she lived. He found it hiding behind a much larger mansion; and having read the name, 'Mrs.

Irene Heron'Heron, forsooth! Her maiden name: so she used that again, did she?he stepped back into the

road to look up at the windows of the first floor. Light was coming through in the corner fiat, and he could

hear a piano being played. He had never had a love of music, had secretly borne it a grudge in the old days

when so often she had turned to her piano, making of it a refuge place into which she knew he could not

enter. Repulse! The long repulse, at first restrained and secret, at last open! Bitter memory came with that

sound. It must be she playing, and thus almost assured of seeing her, he stood more undecided than ever.

Shivers of anticipation ran through him; his tongue felt dry, his heart beat fast. 'I have no cause to be afraid,'

he thought. And then the lawyer stirred within him. Was he doing a foolish thing? Ought he not to have

arranged a formal meeting in the presence of her trustee? No! Not before that fellow Jolyon, who

sympathised with her! Never! He crossed back into the doorway, and, slowly, to keep down the beating of his

heart, mounted the single flight of stairs and rang the bell. When the door was opened to him his sensations

were regulated by the scent which camethat perfume from away back in the past, bringing muffled

remembrance: fragrance of a drawingroom he used to enter, of a house he used to ownperfume of dried

"Say, Mr. Forsyte," he said, "your mistress will see me, I know." He had thought this out; she would think it

When the maid was gone and he was alone in the tiny hall, where the light was dim from one pearlyshaded

sconce, and walls, carpet, everything was silvery, making the walledin space all ghostly, he could only think

ridiculously: 'Shall I go in with my overcoat on, or take it off?' The music ceased; the maid said from the

Soames walked in. He noted mechanically that all was still silvery, and that the upright piano was of

satinwood. She had risen and stood recoiled against it; her hand, placed on the keys as if groping for support,

had struck a sudden discord, held for a moment, and released. The light from the shaded pianocandle fell on

her neck, leaving her face rather in shadow. She was in a black evening dress, with a sort of mantilla over her

shouldershe did not remember ever having seen her in black, and the thought passed through him: 'She

Many times Soames had rehearsed this scene in fancy. Rehearsal served him not at all. He simply could not

speak. He had never thought that the sight of this woman whom he had once so passionately desired, so

completely owned, and whom he had not seen for twelve years, could affect him in this way. He had

imagined himself speaking and acting, half as man of business, half as judge. And now it was as if he were in

the presence not of a mere woman and erring wife, but of some force, subtle and elusive as atmosphere

She had moved away from the piano, and gone over to a windowseat, sinking on to it, with her hands

clasped in her lap. Light fell on her there, so that Soames could see her face, eyes, hair, strangely as he

He sat down on the edge of a satinwood chair, upholstered with silvercoloured stuff, close to where he was

The sound of her voice, reserved and close, the sight of her figure watchfully poised, defensive, was helping

him now. A thousand memories of her, ever on the watch against him, stirred, and....

"Perhaps you will be good enough, then, to give me information on which I can act. The law must be

Soames looked at her hard. He had said that she had not changed; now he perceived that she had. Not in face,

except that it was more beautiful; not in form, except that it was a little fuller no! She had changed

spiritually. There was more of her, as it were, something of activity and daring, where there had been sheer

passive resistance. 'Ah!' he thought, 'that's her independent income! Confound Uncle Jolyon!'

"You are still my wife," said Soames. Why he said that, what he meant by it, he knew neither when he spoke

nor after. It was a truism almost preposterous, but its effect was startling. She rose from the windowseat,

and stood for a moment perfectly still, looking at him. He could see her bosom heaving. Then she turned to

"Why do that?" he said sharply. "You'll catch cold in that dress. I'm not dangerous." And he uttered a little

She shut it and sat down again. She had developed power, this womanthiswife of his! He felt it issuing

from her as she sat there, in a sort of armour. And almost unconsciously he rose and moved nearer; he wanted

to see the expression on her face. Her eyes met his unflinching. Heavens! how clear they were, and what a

dark brown against that white skin, and that burntamber hair! And how white her shoulders.

"You had better tell me," he said; "it's to your advantage to be free as well as to mine. That old matter is too

Stung by that retort, Soames moved towards the piano and back to the hearth, to and fro, as he had been wont

He stopped, and looked at her intently with a sort of curiosity. What on earth did she do with herself, if she

really lived quite alone? And why had he not divorced her? The old feeling that she had never understood

"Yes; it was a crime to marry you. I have paid for it. You will find some way perhaps. You needn't mind my

A sense of defeatof being defrauded of his selfjustification, and of something else beyond power of

explanation to himself, beset Soames like the breath of a cold fog. Mechanically he reached up, took from the

"Lowestoft. Where did you get this? I bought its fellow at Jobson's." And, visited by the sudden memory of

how, those many years ago, he and she had bought china together, he remained staring at the little bowl, as if

A faint smile curved her lips. She held out her hand. It was cold to his rather feverish touch. 'She's made of

ice,' he thought 'she was always made of ice!' But even as that thought darted through him, his senses were

assailed by the perfume of her dress and body, as though the warmth within her, which had never been for

him, were struggling to show its presence. And he turned on his heel. He walked out and away, as if someone

with a whip were after him, not even looking for a cab, glad of the empty Embankment and the cold river,

and the thickstrewn shadows of the planetree leavesconfused, flurried, sore at heart, and vaguely

disturbed, as though he had made some deep mistake whose consequences he could not foresee. And the

fantastic thought suddenly assailed him if instead of, 'I think you had better go,' she had said, 'I think you had

better stay!' What should he have felt, what would he have done? That cursed attraction of her was there for

him even now, after all these years of estrangement and bitter thoughts. It was there, ready to mount to his

head at a sign, a touch. 'I was a fool to go!' he muttered. 'I've advanced nothing. Who could imagine? I never

thought!' Memory, flown back to the first years of his marriage, played him torturing tricks. She had not

deserved to keep her beautythe beauty he had owned and known so well. And a kind of bitterness at the

tenacity of his own admiration welled up in him. Most men would have hated the sight of her, as she had

deserved. She had spoiled his life, wounded his pride to death, defrauded him of a son. And yet the mere

sight of her, cold and resisting as ever, had this power to upset him utterly! It was some damned magnetism

she had! And no wonder if, as she asserted; she had lived untouched these last twelve years. So Bosinney

cursed be his memory!had lived on all this time with her! Soames could not tell whether he was glad of

Nearing his Club at last he stopped to buy a paper. A headline ran: 'Boers reported to repudiate suzerainty!'

Suzerainty! 'Just like her!' he thought: 'she always did. Suzerainty! I still have it by rights. She must be

Soames belonged to two clubs, 'The Connoisseurs,' which he put on his cards and seldom visited, and 'The

Remove,' which he did not put on his cards and frequented. He had joined this Liberal institution five years

ago, having made sure that its members were now nearly all sound Conservatives in heart and pocket, if not

in principle. Uncle Nicholas had put him up. The fine readingroom was decorated in the Adam style.

On entering that evening he glanced at the tape for any news about the Transvaal, and noted that Consols

were down sevensixteenths since the morning. He was turning away to seek the readingroom when a voice

It was Uncle Nicholas, in a frockcoat and his special cutaway collar, with a black tie passed through a ring.

"I think Roger'd have been pleased," his uncle went on. "The thing was very well done. Blackley's? I'll make

a note of them. Buxton's done me no good. These Boers are upsetting methat fellow Chamberlain's driving

Nicholas passed his hand over his thin, cleanshaven cheeks, very rosy after his summer cure; a slight pout

"I mistrust that chap; he's a stormy petrel. Houseproperty will go down if there's war. You'll have trouble

with Roger's estate. I often told him he ought to get out of some of his houses. He was an opinionated

'There was a pair of you!' thought Soames. But he never argued with an uncle, in that way preserving their

"They tell me at Timothy's," said Nicholas, lowering his voice, "that Dartie has gone off at last. That'll be a

Again Soames nodded. If there was a subject on which the Forsytes really agreed, it was the character of

"You take care," said Nicholas, "or he'll turn up again. Winifred had better have the tooth out, I should say.

Soames looked at him sideways. His nerves, exacerbated by the interview he had just come through, disposed

"Well," said Nicholas, "the brougham's waiting; I must get home. I'm very poorly. Remember me to your

And having thus reconsecrated the ties of blood, he passed down the steps at his youthful gait and was

'I've never known Uncle Nicholas other than "very poorly,"' mused Soames, 'or seen him look other than

everlasting. What a family! Judging by him, I've got thirtyeight years of health before me. Well, I'm not

going to waste them.' And going over to a mirror he stood looking at his face. Except for a line or two, and

three or four grey hairs in his little dark moustache, had he aged any more than Irene? The prime of lifehe

and she in the very prime of life! And a fantastic thought shot into his mind. Absurd! Idiotic! But again it

came. And genuinely alarmed by the recur rence, as one is by the second fit of shivering which presages a

feverish cold, he sat down on the weighing machine. Eleven stone! He had not varied two pounds in twenty

years. What age was she? Nearly thirtysevennot too old to have a childnot at all! Thirtyseven on the

ninth of next month. He remembered her birthday wellhe had always observed it religiously, even that last

birthday so soon before she left him, when he was almost certain she was faithless. Four birthdays in his

house. He had looked forward to them, because his gifts had meant a semblance of gratitude, a certain

attempt at warmth. Except, indeed, that last birthdaywhich had tempted him to be too religious! And he

shied away in thought. Memory heaps dead leaves on corpselike deeds, from under which they do but

vaguely offend the sense. And then he thought suddenly: 'I could send her a present for her birthday. After

all, we're Christians! Couldn't!couldn't we join up again!' And he uttered a deep sigh sitting there. Annette!

Ah! but between him and Annette was the need for that wretched divorce suit! And how?

"A man can always work these things, if he'll take it on himself," Jolyon had said.

But why should he take the scandal on himself with his whole career as a pillar of the law at stake? It was not

fair! It was quix otic! Twelve years' separation in which he had taken no steps to free himself put out of

court the possibility of using her conduct with Bosinney as a ground for divorcing her. By doing nothing to

secure relief he had acquiesced, even if the evidence could now be gathered, which was more than doubtful.

Besides, his own pride would never let him use that old incident, he had suffered from it too much. No!

Nothing but fresh misconduct on her partbut she had denied it; andalmosthe had believed her. Hung

He rose from the scoopedout red velvet seat with a feeling of constriction about his vitals. He would never

sleep with this going on in him! And, taking coat and hat again, he went out, moving eastward. In Trafalgar

Square he became aware of some special commotion travelling towards him out of the mouth of the Strand. It

materialised in newspaper men calling out so loudly that no words whatever could be heard. He stopped to

"Payper! Special! Ultimatium by Krooger! Declaration of war!" Soames bought the paper. There it was in the

stop press....! His first thought was: 'The Boers are committing suicide.' His second: 'Is there anything still I

ought to sell?' If so he had missed the chancethere would certainly be a slump in the city tomorrow. He

swallowed this thought with a nod of defiance. That ultimatum was insolentsooner than let it pass he was

prepared to lose money. They wanted a lesson, and they would get it; but it would take three months at least

to bring them to heel. There weren't the troops out there; always behind time, the Government! Confound

those newspaper rats! What was the use of waking everybody up? Breakfast tomorrow was quite soon

enough. And he thought with alarm of his father. They would cry it down Park Lane. Hailing a hansom, he

James and Emily had just gone up to bed, and after communicating the news to Warmson, Soames prepared

The butler ceased passing a hat brush over the silk hat Soames had taken off, and, inclining his face a little

forward, said in a low voice: "Well, sir, they 'aven't a chance, of course; but I'm told they're very good shots.

The slighter shock Soames had felt on discovering that he knew so little of one whom he thought he knew so

well was lost in the slight shock of discovering that the war might touch one personally. Born in the year of

the Crimean War, he had only come to consciousness by the time the Indian Mutiny was over; since then the

many little wars of the British Empire had been entirely professional, quite unconnected with the Forsytes

and all they stood for in the body politic. This war would surely be no exception. But his mind ran hastily

over his family. Two of the Haymans, he had heard, were in some Yeomanry or otherit had always been a

pleasant thought, there was a certain distinction about the Yeomanry; they wore, or used to wear, a blue

uniform with silver about it, and rode horses. And Archibald, he remembered, had once on a time joined the

Militia, but had given it up because his father, Nicholas, had made such a fuss about his 'wasting his time

peacocking about in a uniform.' Recently he had heard somewhere that young Nicholas' eldest, very young

Nicholas, had become a Volunteer. 'No,' thought Soames, mounting the stairs slowly, 'there's nothing in that!'

He stood on the landing outside his parents' bed and dressing rooms, debating whether or not to put his nose

in and say a reassuring word. Opening the landing window, he listened. The rumble from Piccadilly was all

the sound he heard, and with the thought, 'If these motorcars increase, it'll affect house property,' he was

about to pass on up to the room always kept ready for him when he heard, distant as yet, the hoarse rushing

call of a newsvendor. There it was, and coming past the house! He knocked on his mother's door and went in.

His father was sitting up in bed, with his ears pricked under the white hair which Emily kept so beautifully

cut. He looked pink, and extraordinarily clean, in his setting of white sheet and pillow, out of which the

points of his high, thin, nightgowned shoulders emerged in small peaks. His eyes alone, grey and distrustful

under their withered lids, were moving from the window to Emily, who in a wrapper was walking up and

down, squeezing a rubber ball attached to a scent bottle. The room reeked faintly of the eaudeCologne she

"All right!" said Soames, "it's not a fire. The Boers have declared warthat's all."

Soames, too, looked at his father. He was taking it differently from their expectation, as if some thought,

"What do you know about it?" James answered her with asperity. "It's a pretty mess at this time of night,

too!" He lapsed into silence, and his wife and son, as if hypnotised, waited for him to say: 'I can't tellI don't

know; I knew how it would be!' But he did not. The grey eyes shifted, evidently seeing nothing in the room;

then movement occurred under the bedclothes, and the knees were drawn up suddenly to a great height.

"They ought to send out Roberts. It all comes from that fellow Gladstone and his Majuba."

The two listeners noted something beyond the usual in his voice, something of real anxiety. It was as if he

had said: 'I shall never see the old country peaceful and safe again. I shall have to die before I know she's

won.' And in spite of the feeling that James must not be encouraged to be fussy, they were touched. Soames

went up to the bedside and stroked his father's hand which had emerged from under the bedclothes, long and

"Mark my words!" said James, "consols will go to par. For all I know, Val may go and enlist."

"Well," he muttered, "I told you how it would be. I don't know, I'm sure nobody tells me anything. Are you

The crisis was past, he would now compose himself to his normal degree of anxiety; and, assuring his father

that he was sleeping in the house, Soames pressed his hand, and went up to his room.

The following afternoon witnessed the greatest crowd Timothy's had known for many a year. On national

occasions, such as this, it was, indeed, almost impossible to avoid going there. Not that there was any danger

or rather only just enough to make it necessary to assure each other that there was none.

Nicholas was there early. He had seen Soames the night before Soames had said it was bound to come.

(Nicholas was eightytwo.) What had Timothy said? He had had a fit after Majuba. These Boers were a

grasping lot! The darkhaired Francie, who had arrived on his heels, with the contradictious touch which

"Kettle and pot, Uncle Nicholas. What price the Uitlanders?" What price; indeed! A new expression, and

Aunt Juley thought Francie ought not to say such a thing. Dear Mrs. MacAnder's boy, Charlie MacAnder,

was one, and no one could call him grasping. At this Francie uttered one of her mots, scandalising, and so

Aunt Juley covered her ears, too late, but Aunt Hester smiled; as for Nicholas, he pouted witticism of which

he was not the author was hardly to his taste. Just then Marian Tweetyman arrived, followed almost

"Well, I must be going," he said, "Nick here will tell you what'll win the race." And with this hit at his eldest,

who, as a pillar of accountancy, and director of an insurance company, was no more addicted to sport than his

father had ever been, he departed. Dear Nicholas! What race was that? Or was it only one of his jokes? He

was a wonderful man for his age! How many lumps would dear Marian take? And how were Giles and Jesse?

Aunt Juley supposed their Yeomanry would be very busy now, guarding the coast, though of course the

Boers had no ships. But one never knew what the French might do if they had the chance, especially since

that dreadful Fashoda scare, which had upset Timothy so terribly that he had made no investments for months

afterwards. It was the ingratitude of the Boers that was so dreadful, after everything had been done for

themDr. Jameson imprisoned, and he was so nice, Mrs. MacAnder had always said. And Sir Alfred Milner

But at this moment occurred one of those sensationsso precious at Timothy'swhich great occasions

Aunts Juley and Hester were on their feet at once, trembling from smothered resentment, and old affection

bubbling up, and pride at the return of a prodigal June! Well, this was a surprise! Dear Juneafter all these

years! And how well she was looking! Not changed at all! It was almost on their lips to add, 'And how is your

dear grandfather?' forgetting in that giddy moment that poor dear Jolyon had been in his grave for seven years

Ever the most courageous and downright of all the Forsytes, June, with her decided chin and her spirited eyes

and her hair like flame, sat down, slight and short, on a gilt chair with a bead worked seat, for all the world

as if ten years had not elapsed since she had been to see themten years of travel and independence and

devotion to lame ducks. Those ducks of late had been all definitely painters, etchers, or sculptors, so that her

impatience with the Forsytes and their hopelessly inartistic outlook had become intense. Indeed, she had

almost ceased to believe that her family existed, and looked round her now with a sort of challenging

directness which brought exquisite discomfort to the roomful. She had not expected to meet any of them but

'the poor old things'; and why she had come to see them she hardly knew, except that, while on her way from

Oxford Street to a studio in Latimer Road, she had suddenly remembered them with compunction as two

Aunt Juley broke the hush again. "We've just been saying, dear, how dreadful it is about these Boers! And

"Impudent!" said June. "I think he's quite right. What business have we to meddle with them? If he turned out

all those wretched Uitlanders it would serve them right. They're only after money."

"Well! Why can't we leave them alone?" said June, just as, in the open doorway, the maid said "Mr. Soames

Forsyte." Sensation on sensation! Greeting was almost held up by curiosity to see how June and he would

take this encounter, for it was shrewdly suspected, if not quite known, that they had not met since that old and

lamentable affair of her fiance Bosinney with Soames' wife. They were seen to just touch each other's hands,

and look each at the other's left eye only. Aunt Juley came at once to the rescue:

"Dear June is so original. Fancy, Soames, she thinks the Boers are not to blame."

"They only want their independence," said June; "and why shouldn't they have it?"

"Because," answered Soames, with his smile a little on one side, "they happen to have agreed to our

"Suzerainty!"repeated June scornfully; "we shouldn't like anyone's suzerainty over us."

"Contracts are not always just," fumed out June, "and when they're not, they ought to be broken. The Boers

Aunt Hester, to whom nothing was more awful than any kind of disagreement, here leaned forward and

"I don't know why sentiment should be sneered at. It's the best thing in the world." She looked defiantly

Her incomparable instinct for the wrong subject had not failed her. Soames flushed. To disclose the name of

his latest purchases would be like walking into the jaws of disdain. For somehow they all knew of June's

predilection for 'genius' not yet on its legs, and her contempt for 'success' unless she had had a finger in

But June's face had changed; the Forsyte within her was seeing its chance. Why should not Soames buy some

of the pictures of Eric Cobbleyher last lame duck? And she promptly opened her attack: Did Soames know

Oh, yes, Soames knew his work. It was in his view 'splashy,' and would never get hold of the public.

"Of course it won't; that's the last thing one would wish for. I thought you were a connoisseur, not a

"Of course Soames is a connoisseur," Aunt Juley said hastily; "he has wonderful tastehe can always tell

"Oh!" gasped June, and sprang up from the beadcovered chair, "I hate that standard of success. Why can't

And in the slight pause young Nicholas was heard saying gently that Violet (his fourth) was taking lessons in

"Well, goodbye, Auntie," said June; "I must get on," and kissing her aunts, she looked defiantly round the

room, said "Goodbye" again, and went. A breeze seemed to pass out with her, as if everyone had sighed.

James came in using a stick slightly and wrapped in a fur coat which gave him a fictitious bulk.

Everyone stood up. James was so old; and he had not been at Timothy's for nearly two years.

Soames divested him of his coat, and as he did so could not help admiring the glossy way his father was

turned out. James sat down, all knees, elbows, frockcoat, and long white whiskers.

Though there was no apparent sense in his words, they all knew that he was referring to June. His eyes

"Ah!" said James, and sighed. "I was afraid they'd cut and run like old Gladstone. We shall finish with them

All stared at him. James! Always fussy, nervous, anxious! James with his continual, ' I told you how it would

be!' and his pes simism, and his cautious investments. There was something uncanny about such resolution

Aunt Juley said she didn't know; Timothy had not said much at lunch today. Aunt Hester rose and threaded

Young Nicholas remarked in his mild voice that Nick (his eldest) was now going to drill regularly.

"Ah!" muttered James, and stared before himhis thoughts were on Val. "He's got to look after his mother,"

he said, "he's got no time for drilling and that, with that father of his." This cryptic saying produced silence,

"What did June want here?" And his eyes rested with suspicion on all of them in turn. "Her father's a rich

man now." The conversation turned on Jolyon, and when he had been seen last. It was supposed that he went

abroad and saw all sorts of people now that his wife was dead; his watercolours were on the line, and he was

Aunt Juley recalled how he had gone to sleep on the sofa one day, where James was sitting. He had always

Knowing that Jolyon was Irene's trustee, all felt the delicacy of this question, and looked at Soames with

It so exactly expressed the sentiment of everybody present that there was something behind everything, that

"Timothy," she said in a low voice, "Timothy has bought a map, and he's put inhe's put in three flags."

If Timothy had indeed put in three flags already, well!it showed what the nation could do when it was

Jolyon stood at the window in Holly's old night nursery, converted into a studio, not because it had a north

light, but for its view over the prospect away to the Grand Stand at Epsom. He shifted to the side window

which overlooked the stableyard, and whistled down to the dog Balthasar who lay for ever under the clock

tower. The old dog looked up and wagged his tail. 'Poor old boy!' thought Jolyon, shifting back to the other

He had been restless all this week, since his attempt to prosecute trusteeship, uneasy in his conscience which

was ever acute, disturbed in his sense of compassion which was easily excited, and with a queer sensation as

if his feeling for beauty had received some definite embodiment. Autumn was getting hold of the old

oaktree, its leaves were browning. Sunshine had been plentiful and hot this summer. As with trees, so with

men's lives! 'I ought to live long,' thought Jolyon; 'I'm getting mildewed for want of heat. If I can't work, I

shall be off to Paris.' But memory of Paris gave him no pleasure. Besides, how could he go? He must stay and

see what Soames was going to do. 'I'm her trustee. I can't leave her unprotected,' he thought. It had been

striking him as curious how very clearly he could still see Irene in her little drawingroom which he had only

twice entered. Her beauty must have a sort of poignant harmony! No literal portrait would ever do her justice;

the essence of her wasah I what?... The noise of hoofs called him back to the other window. Holly was

riding into the yard on her longtailed 'palfrey.' She looked up and he waved to her. She had been rather

silent lately; getting old, he supposed, beginning to want her future, as they all didyoungsters!

Time was certainly the devil! And with the feeling that to waste this swifttravelling commodity was

unforgivable folly, he took up his brush. But it was no use; he could not concentrate his eye besides, the

light was going. 'I'll go up to town,' he thought. In the hall a servant met him.

Extraordinary coincidence! Passing into the picturegallery, as it was still called, he saw Irene standing over

"I've been trespassing; I came up through the coppice and garden. I always used to come that way to see

"You couldn't trespass here," replied Jolyon; "history makes that impossible. I was just thinking of you."

Irene smiled. And it was as if something shone through; not mere spiritualityserener, completer, more

"History!" she answered; "I once told Uncle Jolyon that love was for ever. Well, it isn't. Only aversion lasts."

"Yes!" he said, "aversion's deeper than love or hate because it's a natural product of the nerves, and we don't

"I came to tell you that Soames has been to see me. He said a thing that frightened me. He said: 'You are still

"What!" ejaculated Jolyon. "You ought not to live alone." And he continued to stare at her, afflicted by the

thought that where Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was why so many people

"Yes. When he came in I'm sure he didn't want to; he changed while he was there."

"I know no woman I could ask; and I can't take a lover to order, Cousin Jolyon."

"Heaven forbid!" said Jolyon. "What a damnable position! Will you stay to dinner? No? Well, let me see you

On that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music, contrasting the English and French characters

and the difference in their attitude to Art. But to Jolyon the colours in the hedges of the long straight lane, the

twittering of chaffinches who kept pace with them, the perfume of weeds being already burned, the turn of

her neck, the fascination of those dark eyes bent on him now and then, the lure of her whole figure, made a

deeper impression than the remarks they exchanged. Unconsciously he held himself straighter, walked with a

In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what she did with her days.

Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano, translated from the French.

She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which supplemented her income a little. She seldom went

out in the evening. "I've been living alone so long, you see, that I don't mind it a bit. I believe I'm naturally

At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door of her mansions. Squeezing her hand at

"You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must let me know everything that happens.

Jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked her to dine and go to the theatre with him.

Solitary, starved, hungup life that she had! "Hotch Potch Club," he said through the trapdoor. As his

hansom debouched on to the Embankment, a man in tophat and overcoat passed, walking quickly, so close

'By Jove!' thought Jolyon; 'Soames himself! What's he up to now?' And, stopping the cab round the corner, he

got out and retraced his steps to where he could see the entrance to the mansions. Soames had halted in front

of them, and was looking up at the light in her windows. 'If he goes in,' thought Jolyon, 'what shall I do?

What have I the right to do?' What the fellow had said was true. She was still his wife, absolutely without

protection from annoyance! 'Well, if he goes in,' he thought, 'I follow.' And he began moving towards the

mansions. Again Soames advanced; he was in the very entrance now. But suddenly he stopped, spun round

on his heel, and came back towards the river. 'What now?' thought Jolyon. 'In a dozen steps he'll recognise

me.' And he turned tail. His cousin's footsteps kept pace with his own. But he reached his cab, and got in

before Soames had turned the corner. "Go on!" he said through the trap. Soames' figure ranged up alongside.

The tone, the halflifted sneering lip, roused sudden anger in Jolyon; but he subdued it.

"You ought to know best," he said, "but if you want a divorce it's not very wise to go seeing her, is it? One

"She has," said Jolyon, looking straight before him; "you can't take things up, you know, as they were twelve

"Look here!" said Jolyon, "she's in a damnable position, and I am the only person with any legal say in her

"Except myself," retorted Soames, "who am also in a damnable position. Hers is what she made for herself;

mine what she made for me. I am not at all sure that in her own interests I shan't require her to return to me."

"I don't know what you may mean by 'what,'" answered Soames coldly; "your say in her affairs is confined to

paying out her income; please bear that in mind. In choosing not to disgrace her by a divorce, I retained my

rights, and, as I say, I am not at all sure that I shan't require to exercise them."

"Yes," said Soames, and there was a deadly quality in his voice. "I've not forgotten the nickname your father

"This is fantastic," murmured Jolyon. Well, the fellow couldn't force his wife to live with him. Those days

were past, anyway! And he looked around at Soames with the thought: 'Is he real, this man?' But Soames

looked very real, sitting square yet almost elegant with the clipped moustache on his pale face, and a tooth

showing where a lip was lifted in a fried smile. There was a long silence, while Jolyon thought: 'Instead of

At those words such a turmoil began taking place in Jolyon that he could barely sit still in the cab. It was as if

he were boxed up with hundreds of thousands of his countrymen, boxed up with that something in the

national character which had always been to him revolting, something which he knew to be extremely natural

and yet which seemed to him inexplicabletheir intense belief in contracts and vested rights, their

complacent sense of virtue in the exaction of those rights. Here beside him in the cab was the very

embodiment, the corporeal sum as it were, of the possessive instincthis own kinsman, too! It was uncanny

and intolerable! 'But there's something more in it than that!' he thought with a sick feeling. 'The dog, they say,

returns to his vomit! The sight of her has reawakened something. Beauty! The devil's in it!'

"As I say," said Soames, "I have not made up my mind. I shall be obliged if you will kindly leave her quite

Jolyon bit his lips; he who had always hated rows almost welcomed the thought, of one now.

"Very well," said Soames, "then we know where we are. I'll get down here." And stopping the cab he got out

The first news of the war was being called in the streets, but he paid no attention. What could he do to help

her? If only his father were alive! He could have done so much! But why could he not do all that his father

could have done? Was he not old enough?turned fifty and twice married, with grownup daughters and a

son. 'Queer,' he thought. 'If she were plain I shouldn't be thinking twice about it. Beauty is the devil, when

you're sen sitive to it!' And into the Club readingroom he went with a disturbed heart. In that very room he

and Bosinney had talked one summer afternoon; he well remembered even now the disguised and secret

lecture he had given that young man in the interests of June, the diagnosis of the Forsytes he had hazarded;

and how he had wondered what sort of woman it was he was warning him against. And now! He was almost

in want of a warning himself. 'It's deuced funny!' he thought, 'really deuced funny!'

It is so much easier to say, "Then we know where we are," than to mean anything particular by the words.

And in saying them Soames did but vent the jealous rankling of his instincts. He got out of the cab in a state

of wary angerwith himself for not having seen Irene, with Jolyon for having seen her; and now with his

He had abandoned the cab because he could not bear to remain seated beside his cousin, and walking briskly

eastwards he thought: 'I wouldn't trust that fellow Jolyon a yard. Once outcast, always outcast!' The chap had

a natural sympathy withwithlaxity (he had shied at the word sin, because it was too melodramatic for

Indecision in desire was to him a new feeling. He was like a child between a promised toy and an old one

which had been taken away from him; and he was astonished at himself. Only last Sunday desire had seemed

simplejust his freedom and Annette. 'I'll go and dine there,' he thought. To see her might bring back his

The restaurant was fairly fulla good many foreigners and folk whom, from their appearance, he took to be

literary or artistic. Scraps of conversation came his way through the clatter of plates and glasses. He distinctly

heard the Boers sympathised with, the British Government blamed. 'Don't think much of their clientele,' he

thought. He went stolidly through his dinner and special coffee without making his presence known, and

when at last he had finished, was careful not to be seen going towards the sanctum of Madame Lamotte. They

were, as he entered, having suppersuch a much nicerlooking supper than the dinner he had eaten that he

felt a kind of griefand they greeted him with a surprise so seemingly genuine that he thought with sudden

suspicion: 'I believe they knew I was here all the time.' He gave Annette a look furtive and searching. So

pretty, seemingly so candid; could she be angling for him? He turned to Madame Lamotte and said:

Really! If she had only known! There were dishes she could have recommended; what a pity! Soames was

confirmed in his suspicion. 'I must look out what I'm doing!' he thought sharply.

"Another little cup of very special coffee, monsieur; a liqueur, Grand Marnier?" and Madame Lamotte rose to

Alone with Annette Soames said, "Well, Annette?" with a defensive little smile about his lips.

The girl blushed. This, which last Sunday would have set his nerves tingling, now gave him much the same

feeling a man has when a dog that he owns wriggles and looks at him. He had a curious sense of power, as if

he could have said to her, 'Come and kiss me,' and she would have come. And yetit was strangebut there

seemed another face and form in the room too; and the itch in his nerves, was it for thator for this? He

jerked his head towards the restaurant and said: "You have some queer customers. Do you like this life?"

'I've got her,' thought Soames, 'if I want her. But do I want her?' She was graceful, she was prettyvery

pretty; she was fresh, she had taste of a kind. His eyes travelled round the little room; but the eyes of his mind

went another journeya halflight, and silvery walls, a satinwood piano, a woman standing against it, reined

back as it were from hima woman with white shoulders that he knew, and dark eyes that he had sought to

know, and hair like dull dark amber. And as in an artist who strives for the unrealisable and is ever thirsty, so

there rose in him at that moment the thirst of the old passion he had never satisfied.

"I think sometimes there is nothing before me but hard work. I am not so in love with work as mother."

"Your mother is a wonder," said Soames, faintly mocking; "she will never let failure lodge in her house."

"Oh! You'll be rich some day," answered Soames, still with that faint mockery; "don't be afraid."

Annette shrugged her shoulders. "Monsieur is very kind." And between her pouting lips she put a chocolate.

Madame Lamotte, with coffee and liqueur, put an end to that colloquy. Soames did not stay long.

Outside in the streets of Soho, which always gave him such a feeling of property improperly owned, he

mused. If only Irene had given him a son, he wouldn't now be squirming after women! The thought had

jumped out of its little dark sentrybox in his inner consciousness. A sonsomething to look forward to,

something to make the rest of life worth while, something to leave himself to, some perpetuity of self. 'If I

had a son,' he thought bitterly, 'a proper legal son, I could make shift to go on as I used. One woman's much

the same as another, after all.' But as he walked he shook his head. No! One woman was not the same as

another. Many a time had he tried to think that in the old days of his thwarted married life; and he had always

failed. He was failing now. He was trying to think Annette the same as that other. But she was not, she had

not the lure of that old passion. 'And Irene's my wife,' he thought, 'my legal wife. I have done nothing to put

her away from me. Why shouldn't she come back to me? It's the right thing, the lawful thing. It makes no

scandal, no disturbance. If it's disagreeable to herbut why should it be? I'm not a leper, and sheshe's no

longer in love!' Why should he be put to the shifts and the sordid disgraces and the lurking defeats of the

Divorce Court, when there she was like an empty house only waiting to be retaken into use and possession by

him who legally owned her? To one so secretive as Soames the thought of reentry into quiet possession of his

own property with nothing given away to the world was intensely alluring. 'No,' he mused, 'I'm glad I went to

see that girl. I know now what I want most. If only Irene will come back I'll be as considerate as she wishes;

she could live her own life; but perhapsperhaps she would come round to me.' There was a lump in his

throat. And doggedly along by the railings of the Green Park, towards his father's house, he went, trying to

Jolly Forsyte was strolling down High Street, Oxford, on a November afternoon; Val Dartie was strolling up.

Jolly had just changed out of boating flannels and was on his way to the 'Fryingpan,' to which he had

recently been elected. Val had just changed out of riding clothes and was on his way to the firea

The cousins had met but twice, Jolly, the secondyear man, having invited the freshman to breakfast; and last

Over a tailor's in the Cornmarket resided one of those privileged young beings called minors, whose

inheritances are large, whose parents are dead, whose guardians are remote, and whose instincts are vicious.

At nineteen he had commenced one of those careers attractive and inexplicable to ordinary mortals for whom

a single bankruptcy is good as a feast. Already famous for having the only roulette table then to be found in

Oxford, he was anticipating his expectations at a dazzling rate. He outcrummed Crum, though of a sanguine

and rather beefy type which lacked the latter's fascinating languor. For Val it had been in the nature of

baptism to be taken there to play roulette; in the nature of confirmation to get back into college, after hours,

through a window whose bars were deceptive. Once, during that evening of delight, glancing up from the

seductive green before him, he had caught sight, through a cloud of smoke, of his cousin standing opposite.

A stranger, seeing them together, would have noticed an unseizable resemblance between these second

cousins of the third generations of Forsytes; the same bone formation in face, though Jolly's eyes were darker

Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he had once heard his father make'When

you're fleeced you're sick, and when you fleece you're sorryJolly contented himself with:

"Oh! I don't know," said Val, as one might speak in defence of a disparaged god; "he's a pretty good sport."

"I hate the ring," said Jolly; "there's such a row and stink. I like the paddock."

"Noride, and drive about. I'm going to play polo next term, if I can get my granddad to stump up."

"Older than forty hills," said Val, "and always thinking he's going to be ruined."

"I don't believe any of that old lot were sportsmen," said Val; they must have worshipped money."

Jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which he had inherited from old Jolyon: One didn't talk

about money! And again there was silence, while they drank tea and ate the buttered buns.

"Rotten, so far. The Boers aren't sports a bit. Why don't they come out into the open?"

"Why should they? They've got everything against them except their way of fighting. I rather admire them."

"They can ride and shoot," admitted Val, "but they're a lousy lot. Do you know Crum?"

"Of Merton? Only by sight. He's in that fast set too, isn't he? Rather Ladida and Brummagem."

"Oh! Sorry!" And they sat awkwardly staring past each other, having pitched on their pet points of snobbery.

'We defy you to bore us. Life isn't half long enough, and we're going to talk faster and more crisply, do more

and know more, and dwell less on any subject than you can possibly imagine. We are "the best"made of

wire and whipcord.' And Val was unconsciously forming himself on a set whose motto was: 'We defy you to

interest or excite us. We have had every sensation, or if we haven't, we pretend we have. We are so exhausted

with living that no hours are too small for us. We will lose our shirts with equanimity. We have flown fast

and are past everything. All is cigarette smoke. Bismillah!' Competitive spirit, bonedeep in the English, was

obliging those two young Forsytes to have ideals; and at the close of a century ideals are mixed. The

aristocracy had already in the main adopted the 'jumpingJesus' principle; though here and there one like

Crumwho was an 'honourable'stood starkly languid for that gambler's Nirvana which had been the

summum bonum of the old 'dandies' and of 'the mashers' in the eighties. And round Crum were still gathered

But there was between the cousins another far less obvious antipathycoming from the unseizable family

resemblance, which each perhaps resented; or from some halfconsciousness of that old feud persisting still

between their branches of the clan, formed within them by odd words or halfhints dropped by their elders.

And Jolly, tinkling his teaspoon, was musing: 'His tiepin and his waistcoat and his drawl and his

"I suppose you'll be meeting your people?" he said, getting up. "I wish you'd tell them I should like to show

"Very good of you," said Jolly, fully meaning that they should not go; but, instinctively polite, he added:

Holly and her father arrived by a midday train. It was her first visit to the city of spires and dreams, and she

was very silent, looking almost shyly at the brother who was part of this wonderful place. After lunch she

wandered, examining his household gods with intense curiosity. Jolly's sittingroom was panelled, and Art

represented by a set of Bartolozzi prints which had belonged to old Jolyon, and by college photographsof

young men, live young men, a little heroic, and to be compared with her memories of Val. Jolyon also

Jolly was anxious that they should see him rowing, so they set forth to the river. Holly, between her brother

and her father, felt elated when heads were turned and eyes rested on her. That they might see him to the best

advantage they left him at the Barge and crossed the river to the towingpath. Slight in buildfor of all the

Forsytes only old Swithin and George were beefyJolly was rowing 'Two' in a trial eight. He looked very

earnest and strenuous. With pride Jolyon thought him the bestlooking boy of the lot; Holly, as became a

sister, was more struck by one or two of the others, but would not have said so for the world. The river was

bright that afternoon, the meadows lush, the trees still beautiful with colour. Distinguished peace clung

around the old city; Jolyon promised himself a day's sketching if the weather held. The Eight passed a second

time, spurting home along the BargesJolly's face was very set, so as not to show that he was blown. They

"Oh!" said Jolly in the Christ Church meadows, "I had to ask that chap Val Dartie to dine with us tonight.

He wanted to give you lunch and show you B.N.C., so I thought I'd better; then you needn't go. I don't like

"Oh! I don't know. He seems to me rather showy and bad form. What are his people like, Dad? He's only a

"I liked Val," Holly answered, staring at the ground before her; "his uncle lookedawfully different." She

"Did you ever," said Jolyon with whimsical intention, "hear our family history, my dears? It's quite a fairy

tale. The first Jolyon Forsyteat all events the first we know anything of, and that would be your

greatgreatgrandfatherdwelt in the land of Dorset on the edge of the sea, being by profession an

'agriculturalist,' as your greataunt put it, and the son of an agriculturistfarmers, in fact; your grandfather

used to call them, 'Very small beer,'" He looked at Jolly to see how his lordliness was standing it, and with

the other eye noted Holly's malicious pleasure in the slight drop of her brother's face.

"We may suppose him thick and sturdy, standing for England as it was before the Industrial Era began. The

second Jolyon Forsyte your greatgrandfather, Jolly; better known as Superior Dosset Forsytebuilt

houses, so the chronicle runs, begat ten children, and migrated to London town. It is known that he drank

sherry. We may suppose him representing the England of Napoleon's wars, and general unrest. The eldest of

his six sons was the third Jolyon, your grandfather, my dearstea merchant and chairman of companies, one

of the soundest Englishmen who ever livedand to me the dearest." Jolyon's voice had lost its irony, and his

son and daughter gazed at him solemnly, "He was just and tenacious, tender and young at heart. You

remember him, and I remember him. Pass to the others! Your greatuncle James, that's young Val's grand

father, had a son called Soameswhereby hangs a tale of no love lost, and I don't think I'll tell it you. James

and the other eight children of 'Superior Dosset,' of whom there are still five alive, may be said to have

represented Victorian England, with its principles of trade and individualism at five per cent. and your money

backif you know what that means. At all events they've turned thirty thousand pounds into a cool million

between them in the course of their long lives. They never did a wild thing unless it was your greatuncle

Swithin, who I believe was once swindled at thimblerig, and was called 'Fourinhand Forsyte' because he

drove a pair. Their day is passing, and their type, not altogether for the advantage of the country. They were

pedestrian, but they too were sound. I am the fourth Jolyon Forsytea poor holder of the name"

"Yes," repeated Jolyon, "a poor specimen, representing, I'm afraid, nothing but the end of the century,

unearned income, amateurism, and individual libertya different thing from individualism, Jolly. You are

As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and Holly said: "It's fascinating, Dad."

The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can be, for lack of modernity, provided one small

oakpanelled private sitting room, in which Holly sat to receive, whitefrocked, shy, and alone, when the

only guest arrived. Rather as one would touch a moth, Val took her hand. And wouldn't she wear this 'measly

flower'? It would look ripping in her hair. He removed a gardenia from his coat.

"Oh! No, thank youI couldn't!" But she took it and pinned it at her neck, having suddenly remembered that

word 'showy'! Val's buttonhole would give offence; and she so much wanted Jolly to like him. Did she realise

that Val was at his best and quietest in her presence, and was that, perhaps, half the secret of his attraction for

By the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet he was giving her a sense of power very delicious;

Val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you liked; the lectures were nothing; and there were

some very good chaps. "Only," he added, "of course I wish I was in town, and could come down and see

"You haven't forgotten," he said, suddenly gathering courage, "that we're going madrabbiting together?"

"Oh! That was only makebelieve. One can't do that sort of thing after one's grown up, you know."

"Dash it! cousins can," said Val. "Next Long Vac.it begins in June, you know, and goes on for everwe'll

But, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins, Holly shook her head. "It won't come off," she

"Won't it!" said Val fervently; "who's going to stop it? Not your father or your brother."

At this moment Jolyon and Jolly came in; and romance fled into Val's patent leather and Holly's white satin

toes, where it itched and tingled during an evening not conspicuous for openheartedness.

Sensitive to atmosphere, Jolyon soon felt the latent antagonism between the boys, and was puzzled by Holly;

so he became un consciously ironical, which is fatal to the expansiveness of youth. A letter, handed to him

after dinner, reduced him to a silence hardly broken till Jolly and Val rose to go. He went out with them,

smoking his cigar, and walked with his son to the gates of Christ Church. Turning back, he took out the letter

"Soames came again tonightmy thirtyseventh birthday. You were right, I mustn't stay here. I'm going

tomorrow to the Piedmont Hotel, but I won't go abroad without seeing you. I feel lonely and downhearted.

He folded the letter back into his pocket and walked on, astonished at the violence of his feelings. What had

He turned, into High Street, down the Turf, and on among a maze of spires and domes and long college fronts

and walls, bright or darkshadowed in the strong moonlight. In this very heart of England's gentility it was

difficult to realise that a lonely woman could be importuned or hunted, but what else could her letter mean?

Soames must have been pressing her to go back to him again, with public opinion and the Law on his side,

too! 'Eighteenninety nine!,' he thought, gazing at the broken glass shining on the top of a villa garden wall;

'but when it comes to property we're still a heathen people! I'll go up tomorrow morning. I dare say it'll be

best for her to go abroad.' Yet the thought displeased him. Why should Soames hunt her out of England!

Besides, he might follow, and out there she would be still more helpless against the attentions of her own

husband! 'I must tread warily,' he thought; 'that fellow could make himself very nasty. I didn't like his manner

in the cab the other night.' His thoughts turned to his daughter June. Could she help? Once on a time Irene

had been her greatest friend, and now she was a 'lame duck,' such as must appeal to June's nature! He

determined to wire to his daughter to meet him at Paddington Station. Retracing his steps towards the

Rainbow he questioned his own sensations. Would he be upsetting himself over every woman in like case?

No! he would not. The candour of this conclusion discomfited him; and, finding that Holly had gone up to

bed, he sought his own room. But he could not sleep, and sat for a long time at his window, huddled in an

Next door Holly too was awake, thinking of the lashes above and below Val's eyes, especially below; and of

what she could do to make Jolly like him better. The scent of the gardenia was strong in her little bedroom,

And Val, leaning out of his firstfloor window in B.N.C., was gazing at a moonlit quadrangle without seeing

it at all, seeing instead Holly, slim and whitefrocked, as she sat beside the fire when he first went in.

But Jolly, in his bedroom narrow as a ghost, lay with a hand beneath his cheek and dreamed he was with Val

in one boat, rowing a race against him, while his father was calling from the towpath: 'Two! Get your hands

Of all those radiant firms which emblazon with their windows the West End of London, Gaves and Cortegal

were considered by Soames the most 'attractive' word just coming into fashion. He had never had his Uncle

Swithin's taste in precious stones, and the abandonment by Irene when she left his house in 1887 of all the

glittering things he had given her had disgusted him with this form of investment. But he still knew a

diamond when he saw one, and during the week before her birthday he had taken occasion, on his way into

the Poultry or his way out therefrom, to dally a little before the greater jewellers where one got, if not one's

Constant cogitation since his drive with Jolyon had convinced him more and more of the supreme importance

of this moment in his life, the supreme need for taking steps and those not wrong. And, alongside the dry and

reasoned sense that it was now or never with his selfpreservation, now or never if he were to range himself

and found a family, went the secret urge of his senses roused by the sight of her who had once been a

passionately desired wife, and the conviction that it was a sin against common sense and the decent secrecy

In an opinion on Winifred's case, Dreamer, Q.C.he would much have preferred Waterbuck, but they had

made him a judge (so late in the day as to rouse the usual suspicion of a political job)had advised that they

should go forward and obtain restitution of conjugal rights, a point which to Soames had never been in doubt.

When they had obtained a decree to that effect they must wait to see if it was obeyed. If not, it would

constitute legal desertion, and they should obtain evidence of misconduct and file their petition for divorce.

All of which Soames knew perfectly well. They had marked him ten and one. This simplicity in his sister's

case only made him the more desperate about the difficulty in his own. Everything, in fact, was driving him

towards the simple solution of Irene's return. If it were still against the grain with her, had he not feelings to

subdue, injury to forgive, pain to forget? He at least had never injured her, and this was a world of

compromise! He could offer her so much more than she had now. He would be prepared to make a liberal

settlement on her which could not be upset. He often scrutinised his image in these days. He had never been a

peacock like that fellow Dartie, or fancied himself a woman's man, but he had a certain belief in his own

appearancenot unjustly, for it was wellcoupled and preserved, neat, healthy, pale, unblemished by drink

or excess of any kind. The Forsyte jaw and the concentration of his face were, in his eyes, virtues. So far as

Thoughts and yearnings, with which one lives daily, become natural, even if farfetched in their inception. If

he could only give tangible proof enough of his determination to let bygones be bygones, and to do all in his

He entered Gaves and Cortegal's therefore, on the morning of November the 9th, to buy a certain diamond

brooch. "Four twentyfive and dirt cheap, sir, at the money. It's a lady's brooch." There was that in his mood

which made him accept without demur. And he went on into the Poultry with the flat green morocco case in

his breast pocket. Several times that day he opened it to look at the seven soft shining stones in their velvet

"If the lady doesn't like it, sir, happy to exchange it any time. But there's no fear of that." If only there were

not! He got through a vast amount of work, only soother of the nerves he knew. A cablegram came while he

was in the office with details from the agent in Buenos Aires, and the name and address of a stewardess who

would be prepared to swear to what was necessary. It was a timely spur to Soames, with his rooted distaste

for the washing of dirty linen in public. And when he set forth by Underground to Victoria Station he

received a fresh impetus towards the renewal of his married life from the account in his evening paper of a

fashionable divorce suit. The homing instinct of all true Forsytes in anxiety and trouble, the corporate

tendency which kept them strong and solid, made him choose to dine at Park Lane. He neither could nor

would breath a word to his people of his intentiontoo reticent and proudbut the thought that at least they

James was in lugubrious mood, for the fire which the impudence of Kruger's ultimatum had lit in him had

been coldwatered by the poor success of the last month, and the exhortations to effort in The Times. He

didn't know where it would end. Soames sought to cheer him by the continual use of the word Buller. But

James couldn't tell! There was Colleyand he got stuck on that hill, and this Ladysmith was down in a

hollow, and altogether it looked to him a 'pretty kettle of fish'; he thought they ought to be sending the

sailorsthey were the chaps, they did a lot of good in the Crimea. Soames shifted the ground of consolation.

Winifred had heard from Val that there had been a 'rag' and a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Day at Oxford, and that

"Ah!" James muttered, "he's a clever little chap." But he shook his head shortly afterwards and remarked that

he didn't know what would become of him, and looking wistfully at his son, murmured on that Soames had

never had a boy. He would have liked a grandson of his own name. And nowwell, there it was!

Soames flinched. He had not expected such a challenge to disclose the secret in his heart. And Emily, who

But James, not looking anyone in the face, muttered on. There were Roger and Nicholas and Jolyon; they all

had grandsons. And Swithin and Timothy had never married. He had done his best; but he would soon be

gone now. And, as though he had uttered words of profound consolation, he was silent, eating brains with a

Soames excused himself directly after dinner. It was not really cold, but he put on his fur coat, which served

to fortify him against the fits of nervous shivering to which he had been subject all day. Subconsciously, he

knew that he looked better thus than in an ordinary black overcoat. Then, feeling the morocco case flat

against his heart, he sallied forth. He was no smoker, but he lit a cigarette, and smoked it gingerly as he

walked along. He moved slowly down the Row towards Knightsbridge, timing himself to get to Chelsea at

ninefifteen. What did she do with herself evening after evening in that little hole? How mysterious women

were! One lived alongside and knew nothing of them. What could she have seen in that fellow Bosinney to

send her mad? For there was madness after all in what she had donecrazy moonstruck madness, in which

all sense of values had been lost, and her life and his life ruined! And for a moment he was filled with a sort

of exaltation, as though he were a man read of in a story who, possessed by the Christian spirit, would restore

to her all the prizes of existence, forgiving and forgetting, and becoming the godfather of her future. Under a

tree opposite Knightsbridge Barracks, where the moonlight struck down clear and white, he took out once

more the morocco case, and let the beams draw colour from those stones. Yes, they were of the first water!

But, at the hard closing snap of the case, another cold shiver ran through his nerves; and he walked on faster,

clenching his gloved hands in the pockets of his coat, almost hoping she would not be in. The thought of how

mysterious she was again beset him. Dining alone there night after nightin an evening dress, too, as if she

were making believe to be in society! Playing the pianoto herself! Not even a dog or cat, so far as he had

seen. And that reminded him suddenly of the mare he kept for station work at Mapledurham. If ever he went

to the stable, there she was quite alone, half asleep, and yet, on her home journeys going more freely than on

her way out, as if longing to be back and lonely in her stable! 'I would treat her well,' he thought incoherently.

'I would be very careful.' And all that capacity for home life of which a mocking Fate seemed for ever to have

deprived him swelled suddenly in Soames, so that he dreamed dreams opposite South Kensington Station. In

the King's Road a man came slithering out of a public house playing a concertina. Soames watched him for a

moment dance crazily on the pavement to his own drawling jagged sounds, then crossed over to avoid contact

with this piece of drunken foolery. A night in the lockup! What asses people were! But the man had noticed

his movement of avoidance, and streams of genial blasphemy followed him across the street. 'I hope they'll

run him in,' thought Soames viciously. 'To have ruffians like that about, with women out alone!' A woman's

figure in front had induced this thought. Her walk seemed oddly familiar, and when she turned the corner for

which he was bound, his heart began to, beat. He hastened on to the corner to make certain. Yes! It was Irene;

he could not mistake her walk in that little drab street. She threaded two more turnings, and from the last

corner he saw her enter her block of flats. To make sure of her now, he ran those few paces, hurried up the

stairs, and caught her standing at her door. He heard the latchkey in the lock, and reached her side just as she

"Don't be alarmed," he said, breathless. "I happened to see you. Let me come in a minute."

She had put her hand up to her breast, her face was colourless, her eyes widened by alarm. Then seeming to

Soames closed the door. He, too, had need to recover, and when she had passed into the sittingroom, waited

a full minute, taking deep breaths to still the beating of his heart. At this moment, so fraught with the future,

to take out that morocco case seemed crude. Yet, not to take it out left him there before her with no

preliminary excuse for coming. And in this dilemma he was seized with impatience at all this paraphernalia

of excuse and justification. This was a sceneit could be nothing else, and he must face it. He heard her

"Why have you come again? Didn't you understand that I would rather you did not?"

He noticed her clothesa dark brown velvet corduroy, a sable boa, a small round toque of the same. They

suited her admirably. She had money to spare for dress, evidently! He said abruptly:

"It's your birthday. I brought you this," and he held out to her the green morocco case.

"Why not?" he said. "Just as a sign that you don't bear me ill feeling any longer."

He followed, thrusting his hand with the brooch in it against the front of her dress. She shrank again.

"Irene," he said, "let bygones be bygones. If I can, surely you might. Let's begin again, as if nothing had been.

Won't you?" His voice was wistful, and his eyes, resting on her face, had in them a sort of supplication.

She, who was standing literally with her back against the wall, gave a little gulp, and that was all her answer.

"Can you really want to live all your days halfdead in this little hole? Come back to me, and I'll give you all

"Yes," he repeated, "but I mean it this time. I'll only ask one thing. I just wantI just want a son. Don't look

like that! I want one. It's hard." His voice had grown hurried, so that he hardly knew it for his own, and twice

he jerked his head back as if struggling for breath. It was the sight of her eyes fixed on him, dark with a sort

of fascinated fright, which pulled him together and changed that painful incoherence to anger.

"Is it so very unnatural?" he said between his teeth, "Is it unnatural to want a child from one's own wife? You

wrecked our life and put this blight on everything. We go on only half alive, and without any future. Is it so

very unflattering to you that in spite of everything II still want you for my wife? Speak, for Goodness'

"I don't want to frighten you," said Soames more gently. "Heaven knows. I only want you to see that I can't

Irene raised one hand and covered the lower part of her face, but her eyes never moved from his, as though

she trusted in them to keep him at bay. And all those years, barren and bitter, since ah! when?almost

since he had first known her, surged up in one great wave of recollection in Soames; and a spasm that for his

Irene uncovered her lips, and both her hands made a writhing gesture in front of her breast. Soames seized

"Don't!" she said under her breath. But he stood holding on to them, trying to stare into her eyes which did

Dropping her hands as though they had been hot irons, he turned away. Was it possible that there could be

such relentless unforgiveness! Could that one act of violent possession be still alive within her? Did it bar

"I am not going till you've answered me. I am offering what few men would bring themselves to offer, I want

"You can't have a reasonable answer. Reason has nothing to do with it. You can only have the brutal truth: I

"Oh!" he said. And there intervened in him a sort of paralysis of speech and movement, the kind of quivering

which comes when a man has received a deadly insult, and does not yet know how he is going to take it, or

"Oh!" he said again, "as bad as that? Indeed! You would rather die. That's pretty!"

At that queer spiritual appeal Soames turned for relief to actuality. He snapped the brooch back into its case

"Yes; nerves don't lie. Haven't you discovered that?" He was silent, obsessed by the thought: 'I will hate this

woman. I will hate her.' That was the trouble! If only he could! He shot a glance at her who stood unmoving

against the wall with her head up and her hands clasped, for all the world as if she were going to be shot. And

"I don't believe a word of it. You have a lover. If you hadn't, you wouldn't be such asuch a little idiot." He

was conscious, before the expression in her eyes, that he had uttered something of a nonsequitur, and

dropped back too abruptly into the verbal freedom of his connubial days. He turned away to the door. But he

could not go out. Something within himthat most deep and secret Forsyte quality, the impossibility of

letting go, the impossibility of seeing the fantastic and forlorn nature of his own tenacity prevented him.

He turned about again, and there stood, with his back against the door, as hers was against the wall opposite,

quite unconscious of anything ridiculous in this separation by the whole width of the room.

"Do you ever think that I found out my mistakemy hopeless, terrible mistakethe very first week of our

marriage; that I went on trying three yearsyou know I went on trying? Was it for myself?"

Soames gritted his teeth. "God knows what it was. I've never understood you; I shall never understand you.

You had everything you wanted; and you can have it again, and more. What's the matter with me? I ask you a

plain question: What is it?" Unconscious of the pathos in that enquiry, he went on passionately: "I'm not

lame, I'm not loathsome, I'm not a boor, I'm not a fool. What is it? What's the mystery about me?"

He clasped his hands with a gesture that for him was strangely full of expression. "When I came here

tonight I wasI hopedI meant everything that I could to do away with the past, and start fair again. And

you meet me with 'nerves,' and silence, and sighs. There's nothing tangible. It's likeit's like a spider's web."

"Well, I don't choose to be in a spider's web. I'll cut it." He walked straight up to her. "Now!" What he had

gone up to her to do he really did not know. But when he was close, the old familiar scent of her clothes

suddenly affected him. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent forward to kiss her. He kissed not her lips,

but a little hard line where the lips had been drawn in; then his face was pressed away by her hands; he heard

her say: "Oh! No!" Shame, compunction, sense of futility flooded his whole being, he turned on his heel and

Jolyon found June waiting on the platform at Paddington. She had received his telegram while at breakfast.

Her abodea studio and two bedrooms in a St. John's Wood gardenhad been selected by her for the

complete independence which it guaranteed. Unwatched by Mrs. Grundy, unhindered by permanent

domestics, she could receive lame ducks at any hour of day or night, and not seldom had a duck without

studio of its own made use of June's. She enjoyed her freedom, and possessed herself with a sort of virginal

passion; the warmth which she would have lavished on Bosinney, and of which given her Forsyte

tenacityhe must surely have tired, she now expended in championship of the underdogs and budding

'geniuses' of the artistic world. She lived, in fact, to turn ducks into the swans she believed they were. The

very fervour of her protection warped her judgments. But she was loyal and liberal; her small eager hand was

ever against the oppressions of academic and commercial opinion, and though her income was considerable,

She had come to Paddington Station heated in her soul by a visit to Eric Cobbley. A miserable Gallery had

refused to let that straighthaired genius have his oneman show after all. Its impudent manager, after

visiting his studio, had expressed the opinion that it would only be a 'onehorse show from the selling point

of view.' This crowning example of commercial cowardice towards her favourite lame duckand he so hard

up, with a wife and two children, that he had caused her account to be overdrawnwas still making the

blood glow in her small, resolute face, and her redgold hair to shine more than ever. She gave her father a

hug, and got into a cab with him, having as many fish to fry with him as he with her. It became at once a

Jolyon had reached the words: "My dear, I want you to come with me," when, glancing at her face, he

perceived by her blue eyes moving from side to sidelike the tail of a preoccupied cat that she was not

"How perfectly beastly! Can't it be done somehow? There must be a way. I know I could buy a small Gallery

"A small Gallery," murmured Jolyon, "seems a modest desire. But your grandfather foresaw it."

"I think," cried June vigorously, "that all this care about money is awful, when there's so much genius in the

world simply crushed out for want of a little. I shall never marry and have children; why shouldn't I be able to

do some good instead of having it all tied up in case of things which will never come off?"

"Our name is Forsyte, my dear," replied Jolyon in the ironical voice to which his impetuous daughter had

never quite grown accustomed; "and Forsytes, you know, are people who so settle their property that their

grandchildren, in case they should die before their parents, have to make wills leaving the property that will

only come to themselves when their parents die. Do you follow that? Nor do I, but it's a fact, anyway; we live

by the principle that so long as there is a possibility of keeping wealth in the family it must not go out; if you

die unmarried, your money goes to Jolly and Holly and their children if they marry. Isn't it pleasant to know

Jolyon shook his head. "You could rent a Gallery, no doubt, if you could manage it out of your income."

"No," said June shrewdly, "I could buy for ten thousand; that would only be four hundred a year. But I should

have to pay a thousand a year rent, and that would only leave me five hundred. If I had the Gallery, Dad,

think what I could do. I could make Eric Cobbley's name in no time, and ever so many others."

Jolyon started. 'I?' he thought. 'Oh! Ah! Now she's going to ask me to do something. We take it out, we

"Darling," she said, "you buy the Gallery, and I'll pay you four hundred a year for it. Then neither of us will

Jolyon wriggled. "Don't you think," he said, "that for an artist to buy a Gallery is a bit dubious? Besides, ten

"Of course you're not, but you're awfully businesslike. And I'm sure we could make it pay. It'll be a perfect

way of scoring off those wretched dealers and people." And again she squeezed her father's arm.

'Ah!' thought Jolyon, 'I knew it was just off somewhere. Now for what I want out of her!'

"Well, I'll think of it, but not just now. You remember Irene? I want you to come with me and see her.

Soames is after her again. She might be safer if we could give her asylum somewhere."

The word asylum, which he had used by chance, was of all most calculated to rouse June's interest.

It was Jolyon's turn to squeeze her arm, in warm admiration for this spirited, generoushearted little creature

"Irene is proud," he said, with a sidelong glance, in sudden doubt of June's discretion; "she's difficult to help.

We must tread gently. This is the place. I wired her to expect us. Let's send up our cards."

"I can't bear Soames," said June as she got out; "he sneers at everything that isn't successful"

Nothing if not morally courageous, June walked straight up to her former friend, kissed her cheek, and the

two settled down on a sofa never sat on since the hotel's foundation. Jolyon could see that Irene was deeply

Irene smiled faintly and shook her head. "But his position is horrible," she murmured.

Jolyon ,remembered how fervently in the old days June had hoped that no divorce would smirch her dead and

He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she half turned her back on them, and stood

"Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone. What does he want at his age?"

"A child!" cried June scornfully. "Of course! To leave his money to. If he wants one badly enough let him

Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring June her violent partizanship was fighting

"It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin Hill, and see how things shape."

Irene looked full at Jolyonin all his many attempts afterwards to analyze that glance he never could

He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant thought flashed through him: 'Well, I could see her

June sprang up and paced the room. "It's all horrible," she said. "Why should people be tortured and kept

miserable and helpless year after year by this disgusting sanctimonious law?" But someone had come into the

"You won't go back there in the meantime, will you?" This he said with an anxiety strange to himself.

"Built on sand," answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; "but it's a pleasure to do anything, at any time,

"Don't think of him," she said under her breath; "enjoy yourself, and bless you!"

With a memory of tears in Irene's eyes, and of a smile on her lips, they went away extremely silent, passing

the lady who had interrupted the interview and was turning over the papers on the table.

But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father's balance, and could see things impartially even

when his emotions were roused. Irene was right; Soames' position was as bad or worse than her own. As for

the lawit catered for a human nature of which it took a naturally low view. And, feeling that if he stayed in

his daughter's company he would in one way or another commit an indiscretion, he told her he must catch his

train back to Oxford; and hailing a cab, left her to Turner's watercolours, with the promise that he would

But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin to love! If so he was certainly in danger of loving

her, for he pitied her profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so handicapped and lonely! 'I hope to

goodness she'll keep her head!' he thought; 'she might easily grow desperate.' In fact, now that she had cut

loose from her poor threads of occupation, he couldn't imagine how she would go onso beautiful a

creature, hopeless, and fair game for anyone! In his exasperation was more than a little fear and jealousy.

Women did strange things when they were driven into corners. 'I wonder what Soames will do now!' he

thought. 'A rotten, idiotic state of things! And I suppose they would say it was her own fault.' Very

preoccupied and sore at heart, he got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and on the platform at Oxford took his

hat off to a lady whose face he seemed to remember without being able to put a name to her, not even when

Quivering from the defeat of his hopes, with the green morocco case still flat against his heart, Soames

revolved thoughts bitter as death. A spider's web! Walking fast, and noting nothing in the moonlight, he

brooded over the scene he had been through, over the memory of her figure rigid in his grasp. And the more

he brooded, the more certain he became that she had a loverher words, 'I would sooner die!' were

ridiculous if she had not. Even if she had never loved him, she had made no fuss until Bosinney came on the

scene. No; she was in love again, or she would not have made that melodramatic answer to his proposal,

which in all the circumstances was reasonable! Very well! That simplified matters.

'I'll take steps to know where I am,' he thought; 'I'll go to Polteed's the first thing tomorrow morning.'

But even in forming that resolution he knew he would have trouble with himself. He had employed Polteed's

agency several times in the routine of his profession, even quite lately over Dartie's case, but he had never

He slept over that project and his wounded prideor rather, kept vigil. Only while shaving did he suddenly

remember that she called herself by her maiden name of Heron. Polteed would not know, at first at all events,

whose wife she was, would not look at him obsequiously and leer behind his back. She would just be the wife

He was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at the first possible moment, lest, after all, he

might fail himself. And making Warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he stole out of the house before

the hour of breakfast. He walked rapidly to one of those small West End streets where Polteed's and other

firms ministered to the virtues of the wealthier classes. Hitherto he had always had Polteed to see him in the

Poultry; but he well knew their address, and reached it at the opening hour. In the outer office, a room

furnished so cosily that it might have been a moneylender's, he was attended by a lady who might have been

To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was reduced to having his wife spied on, was the

Mr. Claud Polteedso different from Mr. Lewis Polteedwas one of those men with dark hair, slightly

curved noses, and quick brown eyes, who might be taken for Jews but are really Phoenicians; he received

Soames in a room hushed by thickness of carpet and curtains. It was, in fact, confidentially furnished, without

Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door with a certain ostentation.

"If a client sends for me," he was in the habit of saying, "he takes what precaution he likes. If he comes here,

we convince him that we have no leakages. I may safely say we lead in security, if in nothing else...." "Now,

Soames' gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak. It was absolutely necessary to hide from this man that

he had any but professional interest in the matter; and, mechanically, his face assumed its sideway smile.

"I've come to you early like this because there's not an hour to lose"if he lost an hour he might fail himself

Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his eyes over it, and locked the drawer up

Soames had seated himself and crossed his legsnothing but a faint flush, which might have been his

"Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat C, Truro Mansions, Chelsea, till further

"Precisely," said Mr. Polteed; "divorce, I presume?" and he blew into a speakingtube. "Mrs. Blanch in? I

"Deal with any reports yourself," resumed Soames, "and send them to me personally, marked confidential,

Mr. Polteed smiled, as though saying, 'You are teaching your grandmother, my dear sir; and his eyes slid over

"No," said Soames. "Understand me: Nothing may come of this. If a name gets out, or the watching is

Mr. Polteed nodded. "I can put it into the cipher category. Under that system a name is never mentioned; we

He unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote on them, and handed one to Soames.

"Keep that, sir; it's your key. I retain this duplicate. The case we'll call 7x. The party watched will be 17; the

watcher 19; the Mansions 25 ; yourselfI should say, your firm31; my firm 32, myself 2. In case you

should have to mention your client in writing I have called him 43 ; any person we suspect will be 47; a

Soames shrugged. "In reason," he answered curtly, and got up. "Keep it entirely in your own hands."

"Entirely," said Mr. Polteed, appearing suddenly between him and the door. "I shall be seeing you in that

other case before long. Good morning, sir." His eyes slid unprofessionally over Soames once more, and he

Out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. A spider's web, and to cut it he must use this spidery,

secret, unclean method, so utterly repugnant to one who regarded his private life as his most sacred piece of

property. But the die was cast, he could not go back. And he went on into the Poultry, and locked away the

green morocco case and the key to that cipher destined to make crystalclear his domestic bankruptcy.

Odd that one whose life was spent in bringing to the public eye all the private coils of property, the domestic

disagreements of others, should dread so utterly the public eye turned on his own; and yet not odd, for who

He worked hard all day. Winifred was due at four o'clock; he was to take her down to a conference in the

Temple with Dreamer Q.C., and waiting for her he reread the letter he had caused her to write the day of

"I have received your letter with the news that you have left me for ever and are on your way to Buenos

Aires. It has naturally been a great shock. I am taking this earliest opportunity of writing to tell you that I am

prepared to let bygones be bygones if you will return to me at once. I beg you to do so. I am very much upset,

and will not say any more now. I am sending this letter registered to the address you left at your Club. Please

Ugh! What bitter humbug! He remembered leaning over Winifred while she copied what he had pencilled,

and how she had said, laying down her pen, "Suppose he comes, Soames!" in such a strange tone of voice, as

if she did not know her own mind. "He won't come," he had answered, "till he's spent his money. That's why

we must act at once." Annexed to the copy of that letter was the original of Dartie's drunken scrawl from the

Iseeum Club. Soames could have wished it had not been so manifestly penned in liquor. Just the sort of thing

the Court would pitch on. He seemed to hear the Judge's voice say: "You took this seriously! Seriously

enough to write him as you did? Do you think he meant it?" Never mind! The fact was clear that Dartie had

sailed and had not returned. Annexed also was his cabled answer: "Impossible return. Dartie." Soames shook

his head. If the whole thing were not disposed of within the next few months the fellow would turn up again

like a bad penny. It saved a thousand a year at least to get rid of him, besides all the worry to Winifred and

Winifred, who had adopted a kind of halfmourning which became her fair hair and tall figure very well,

arrived in James' barouche drawn by James' pair. Soames had not seen it in the City since his father retired

from business five years ago, and its incongruity gave him a shock. 'Times are changing,' he thought; 'one

doesn't know what'll go next!' Top hats even were scarcer. He enquired after Val. Val, said Winifred, wrote

that he was going to play polo next term. She thought he was in a very good set. She added with fashionably

disguised anxiety: "Will there be much publicity about my affair, Soames? Must it be in the papers? It's so

"The papers are a pushing lot; it's very difficult to keep things out. They pretend to be guarding the public's

morals, and they corrupt them with their beastly reports. But we haven't got to that yet. We're only seeing

Dreamer today on the restitution question. Of course he understands that it's to lead to a divorce; but you

must seem genuinely anxious to get Dartie backyou might practice that attitude today."

Soames gave her a sharp look. It was clear to him that she could not take her Dartie seriously, and would go

back on the whole thing if given half a chance. His own instinct had been firm in this matter from the first. To

save a little scandal now would only bring on his sister and her children real disgrace and perhaps ruin later

on if Dartie were allowed to hang on to them, going downhill and spending the money James would leave

his daughter. Though it was all tied up, that fellow would milk the settlements somehow, and make his family

pay through the nose to keep him out of bankruptcy or even perhaps gaol! They left the shining carriage, with

the shining horses and the shininghatted servants on the Embankment, and walked up to Dreamer Q.C.'s

Mr. Bellby, the juniornot as junior as he might have been, for Soames only employed barristers of

established reputation; it was, indeed, something of a mystery to him how barristers ever managed to

establish that which made him employ themMr. Bellby was seated, taking a final glance through his

papers. He had come from Court, and was in wig and gown, which suited a nose jutting out like the handle of

a tiny pump, his small shrewd blue eyes, and rather protruding lower lipno better man to supplement and

The introduction to Winifred accomplished, they leaped the weather and spoke of the war. Soames

"If he doesn't comply we can't bring proceedings for six months. I want to get on with the matter, Bellby."

Mr. Bellby, who had the ghost of an Irish brogue, smiled at Winifred and murmured: "The Law's delays, Mrs.

"Six months!" repeated Soames; "it'll drive it up to June! We shan't get the suit on till after the long vacation.

We must put the screw on, Bellby"he would have all his work cut out to keep Winifred up to the scratch.

They filed in, Mr. Bellby going first, and Soames escorting Winifred after an interval of one minute by his

Dreamer Q.C., in a gown but divested of wig, was standing before the fire, as if this conference were in the

nature of a treat; he had the leathery, rather oily complexion which goes with great learning, a considerable

nose with glasses perched on it, and little greyish whiskers; he luxuriated in the perpetual cocking of one eye,

and the concealment of his lower with his upper lip, which gave a smothered turn to his speech. He had a

way, too, of coming suddenly round the corner on the person he was talking to; this, with a disconcerting tone

of voice, and a habit of growling before he began to speakhad secured a reputation second in Probate and

Divorce to very few. Having listened, eye cocked, to Mr. Bellby's breezy recapitulation of the facts, he

"I know all that;" and coming round the corner at Winifred, smothered the words:

Dreamer growled. "Exactly. Now, can we rely on the cabled refusal, or must we wait till after Christmas to

"We won't be on till the middle of December. We've no need to give um more rope than that."

"To Jericho!" said Dreamer, again coming round his corner; "quite so. People oughtn't to go to Jericho, ought

they, Mrs. Dartie?" And he raised his gown into a sort of fantail. "I agree. We can go forward. Is there

Dreamer growled softly: "Delighted. Good evening!" And let fall the protection of his gown.

They filed out. Winifred went down the stairs. Soames lingered. In spite of himself he was impressed by

"The evidence is all right, I think," he said to Bellby. "Between ourselves, if we don't get the thing through

Soames nodded and hastened after his sister. He found her in a draught, biting her lips behind her veil, and at

Winifred's face hardened; she drew herself up, and they walked to the carriage. And, all through that silent

drive back to Green Street, the souls of both of them revolved a single thought: 'Why, oh! why should I have

to expose my misfortune to the public like this? Why have to employ spies to peer into my private troubles?

The possessive instinct, which, so determinedly balked, was animating two members of the Forsyte family

towards riddance of what they could no longer possess, was hardening daily in the British body politic.

Nicholas, originally so doubtful concerning a war which must affect property, had been heard to say that

these Boers were a pigheaded lot; they were causing a lot of expense, and the sooner they had their lesson

the better. He would send out Wolseley! Seeing always a little further than other peoplewhence the most

considerable fortune of all the Forsyteshe had perceived already that Buller was not the man'a bull of a

chap, who just went butting, and if they didn't look out Ladysmith would fall.' This was early in December,

so that when Black Week came, he was enabled to say to everybody: 'I told you so.' During that week of

gloom such as no Forsyte could remember, very young Nicholas attended so many drills in his corps, 'The

Devil's Own,' that young Nicholas consulted the family physician about his son's health and was alarmed to

find that he was perfectly sound. The boy had only just eaten his dinners and been called to the bar, at some

expense, and it was in a way a nightmare to his father and mother that he should be playing with military

efficiency at a time when military efficiency in the civilian population might conceivably be wanted. His

grandfather, of course, poohpoohed the notion, too thoroughly educated in the feeling that no British war

could be other than little and professional, and profoundly distrustful of Imperial commitments, by which,

moreover, he stood to lose, for he owned De Beers, now going down fast, more than a sufficient sacrifice on

At Oxford, however, rather different sentiments prevailed. The inherent effervescence of conglomerate youth

had, during the two months of the term before Black Week, been gradually crystallising out into vivid

oppositions. Normal adolescence, ever in England of a conservative tendency though not taking things too

seriously, was vehement for a fight to a finish and a good licking for the Boers. Of this larger faction Val

Dartie was naturally a member. Radical youth, on the other hand, a small but perhaps more vocal body, was

for stopping the war and giving the Boers autonomy. Until Black Week, however, the groups were

amorphous, without sharp edges, and argument remained but academic. Jolly was one of those who knew not

where he stood. A streak of his grandfather old Jolyon's love of justice prevented, him from seeing one side

only. Moreover, in his set of 'the best' there was a 'jumpingJesus' of extremely advanced opinions and some

personal magnetism. Jolly wavered. His father, too, seemed doubtful in his views. And though, as was proper

at the age of twenty, he kept a sharp eye on his father, watchful for defects which might still be remedied, still

that father had an 'air' which gave a sort of glamour to his creed of ironic tolerance. Artists of course; were

notoriously Hamletlike, and to this extent one must discount for one's father, even if one loved him. But

Jolyon's original view, that to 'put your nose in where you aren't wanted' (as the Uitlanders had done) 'and

then work the oracle till you get on top is not being quite the clean potato,' had, whether founded in fact or

no, a certain attraction for his son, who thought a deal about gentility. On the other hand Jolly could not abide

such as his set called 'cranks,' and Val's set called 'smugs,' so that he was still balancing when the clock of

Black Week struck. Onetwothree, came those ominous repulses at Stormberg, Magersfontein, Colenso.

The sturdy English soul reacting after the first cried, 'Ah! but Methuen!' after the second: 'Ah! but Buller!'

then, in inspissated gloom, hardened. And Jolly said to himself: 'No, damn it! We've got to lick the beggars

now; I don't care whether we're right or wrong.' And, if he had known it, his father was thinking the same

That next Sunday, last of the term, Jolly was bidden to wine with 'one of the best.' After the second toast,

'Buller and damnation to the Boers,' drunkno heel tapsin the college Burgundy, he noticed that Val

Dartie, also a guest, was looking at him with a grin and saying something to his neighbour. He was sure it

was disparaging. The last boy in the world to make himself conspicuous or cause public disturbance, Jolly

grew rather red and shut his lips. The queer hostility he had always felt towards his second cousin was

strongly and suddenly reinforced. 'All right!' he thought, 'you wait, my friend!' More wine than was good for

him, as the custom was, helped him to remember, when they all trooped forth to a secluded spot, to touch Val

They went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching; they climbed the garden railings. The

spikes on the top slightly ripped Val's sleeve, and occupied his mind. Jolly's mind was occupied by the

thought that they were going to fight in the precincts of a college foreign to them both. It was not the thing,

"You're not screwed, are you?" said Jolly suddenly. "I can't fight you if you're screwed."

Without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures of defence. They had drunk too much for

science, and so were especially careful to assume correct attitudes, until Jolly smote Val almost accidentally

on the nose. After that it was all a dark and ugly scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no one

to call 'time,' till, battered and blown, they unclinched and staggered back from each other, as a voice said:

At this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden gate, like some demand of a god, their nerves

gave way, and snatching up their coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up them, and made for the secluded

spot whence they had issued to the fight. Here, in dim light, they mopped their faces, and without a word

walked, ten paces apart, to the college gate. They went out silently, Val going towards the Broad along the

Brewery, Jolly down the lane towards the High. His head, still fumed, was busy with regret that he had not

displayed more science, passing in review the counters and knockout blows which he had not delivered. His

mind strayed on to an imagined combat, infinitely unlike that which he had just been through, infinitely

gallant, with sash and sword, with thrust and parry, as if he were in the pages of his beloved Dumas. He

fancied himself La Mole, and Aramis, Bussy, Chicot, and D'Artagnan rolled into one, but he quite failed to

envisage Val as Coconnas, Brissac, or Rochefort. The fellow was just a confounded cousin who didn't come

up to Cocker. Never mind! He had given him one or two. 'ProBoer!' The word still rankled, and thoughts of

en listing jostled his aching head; of riding over the veldt, firing gallantly, while the Boers rolled over like

rabbits. And, turning up his smarting eyes, he saw the stars shining between the house tops of the High, and

himself lying out on the Karoo (whatever that was) rolled in a blanket, with his rifle ready and his gaze fixed

He had a fearful 'head' next morning, which he doctored, as became one of 'the best,' by soaking it in cold

water, brewing strong coffee which he could not drink, and only sipping a little Hock at lunch. The legend

that 'some fool' had run into him round a corner accounted for a bruise on his cheek. He would on no account

have mentioned the fight, for; on second thoughts, it fell far short of his standards.

The next day he went 'down,' and travelled through to Robin Hill. Nobody was there but June and Holly, for

his father had gone to Paris. He spent a restless and unsettled Vacation, quite out of touch with either of his

sisters. June, indeed, was occupied with lame ducks, whom, as a rule, Jolly could not stand, especially that

Eric Cobbley and his family, 'hopeless outsiders,' who were always littering up the house in the Vacation.

And between Holly and himself there was a strange division, as if she were beginning to have opinions of her

own, which was sounnecessary. He punched viciously at a ball, rode furiously but alone in Richmond

Park, making a point of jumping the stiff, high hurdles put up to close certain worn avenues of

grasskeeping his nerve in, he called it. Jolly was more afraid of being afraid than most boys are. He bought

a rifle, too, and put a range up in the home field, shooting across the pond into the kitchengarden wall, to

the peril of gardeners, with the thought that some day, perhaps, he would enlist and save South Africa for his

country. In fact, now that they were appealing for Yeomanry recruits the boy was thoroughly upset. Ought he

to go? None of 'the best,' so far as he knewand he was in correspondence with severalwere thinking of

joining. If they had been making a move he would have gone at oncevery compet itive, and with a strong

sense of form, he could not bear to be left behind in anythingbut to do it off his own bat might look like

'swagger'; because of course it wasn't really necessary. Besides, he did not want to go, for the other side of

this young Forsyte recoiled from leaping before he looked. It was altogether mixed pickles within him, hot

and sickly pickles, and he became quite unlike his serene and rather lordly self.

And then one day he saw that which moved him to uneasy wrathtwo riders, in a glade of the Park close to

the Ham Gate, of whom she on the lefthand was most assuredly Holly on her silver roan, and he on the

righthand as assuredly that 'squirt' Val Dartie. His first impulse was to urge on his own horse and demand

the meaning of this portent, tell the fellow to 'bunk,' and take Holly home. His secondto feel that he would

look a fool if they refused. He reined his horse in behind a tree, then perceived that it was equally impossible

to spy on them. Nothing for it but to go home and await her coming! Sneaking out with that young bounder!

He could not consult with June, because she had gone up that morning in the train of Eric Cobbley and his

lot. And his father was still in 'that rotten Paris.' He felt that this was emphatically one of those moments for

which he had trained himself, assiduously, at school, where he and a boy called Brent had frequently set fire

to newspapers and placed them in the centre of their studies to accustom them to coolness in moments of

danger. He did not feel at all cool waiting in the stableyard, idly stroking the dog Balthasar, who queasy as

an old fat monk, and sad in the absence of his master, turned up his face, panting with gratitude for this

attention. It was half an hour before Holly came, flushed and ever so much prettier than she had any right to

look. He saw her look at him quicklyguiltily of coursethen followed her in, and, taking her arm,

conducted her into what had been their grand father's study. The room, not much used now, was still

vaguely haunted for them both by a presence with which they associated tenderness, large drooping white

moustaches, the scent of cigar smoke, and laughter. Here Jolly, in the prime of his youth, before he went to

school at all, had been wont to wrestle with his grand father, who even at eighty had an irresistible habit of

crooking his leg. Here Holly, perched on the arm of the great leather chair, had stroked hair curving silvery

over an ear into which she would whisper secrets. Through that window they had all three sallied times

without number to cricket on the lawn, and a mysterious game called 'Wopsydoozle,' not to be understood

by outsiders, which made old Jolyon very hot. Here once on a warm night Holly had appeared in her 'nighty,'

having had a bad dream, to have the clutch of it released. And here Jolly, having begun the day badly by

introducing fizzy magnesia into Mademoiselle Beauce's newlaid egg, and gone on to worse, had been sent

"Well, she boxed my ears, Gran, so I only boxed hers, and then she boxed mine again."

Herewhere the Waverley novels and Byron's works and Gibbon's Roman Empire and Humboldt's Cosmos,

and the bronzes on the mantelpiece, and that masterpiece of the oily school, 'Dutch FishingBoats at Sunset,'

were fixed as fate, and for all sign of change old Jolyon might have been sitting there still, with legs crossed,

in the arm chair, and domed forehead and deep eyes grave above The Timeshere they came, those two

The sight of blood rushing into her cheeks gave him some satisfaction; she ought to be ashamed!

"Do you know," he said weightily, "that he called me a proBoer last term? And I had to fight him."

And slipping past her brother she went out, leaving him staring at the bronze Venus sitting on a tortoise,

which had been shielded from him so far by his sister's dark head under her soft felt riding hat. He felt

queerly disturbed, shaken to his young foundations. A lifelong domination lay shattered round his feet. He

Why didn't he like Val Dartie? He could not tell. Ignorant of family history, barely aware of that vague feud

which had started thirteen years before with Bosinney's defection from June in favour of Soames' wife,

knowing really almost nothing about Val he was at sea. He just did dislike him. The question, however, was:

What should he do? Val Dartie, it was true, was a secondcousin, but it was not the thing for Holly to go

about with him. And yet to 'tell' of what he had chanced on was against his creed. In this dilemma he went

and sat in the old leather chair and crossed his legs. It grew dark while he sat there staring out through the

long window at the old oaktree, ample yet bare of leaves, becoming slowly just a shape of deeper dark

'Grandfather!' he thought without sequence, and took out his watch. He could not see the hands, but he set the

repeater going. 'Five o'clock!' His grandfather's first gold hunter watch, buttersmooth with ageall the

milling worn from it, and dented with the mark of many a fall. The chime was like a little voice from out of

that golden age, when they first came from St. John's Wood, London, to this housecame driving with

grandfather in his carriage, and almost instantly took to the trees. Trees to climb, and grand father watering

the geraniumbeds below! What was to be done? Tell Dad he must come home? Confide in June?only she

was soso sudden! Do nothing and trust to luck? After all, the Vac. would soon be over. Go up and see Val

and warn him off? But how get his address? Holly wouldn't give it him! A maze of paths, a cloud of

possibilities! He lit a cigarette. When he had smoked it halfway through his brow relaxed, almost as if some

thin old hand had been passed gently over it; and in his ear something seemed to whisper: 'Do nothing; be

nice to Holly, be nice to her, my dear!' And Jolly heaved a sigh of contentment, blowing smoke through his,

But up in her room, divested of her habit, Holly was still frowning. 'He is nothe is not!' were the words

A little private hotel over a wellknown restaurant near the Gare St. Lazare was Jolyon's haunt in Paris. He

hated his fellow Forsytes abroadvapid as fish out of water in their welltrodden runs, the Opera, Rue de

Rivoli, and Moulin Rouge. Their air of having come because they wanted to be somewhere else as soon as

possible annoyed him. But no other Forsyte came near this haunt, where he had a wood fire in his bedroom

and the coffee was excel lent. Paris was always to him more attractive in winter. The acrid savour from

woodsmoke and chestnutroasting braziers, the sharpness of the wintry sunshine on bright rays, the open

cafes defying keenaired winter, the selfcontained brisk boulevard crowds, all informed him that in winter

He spoke French well, had some friends, knew little places where pleasant dishes could be met with, queer

types observed. He felt philosophic in Paris, the edge of irony sharpened; life took on a subtle, purposeless

meaning, became a bunch of flavours tasted, a darkness shot with shifting gleams of light.

When in the first week of December he decided to go to Paris, he was far from admitting that Irene's presence

was influencing him. He had not been there two days before he owned that the wish to see her had been more

than half the reason. In England one did not admit what was natural. He had thought it might be well to speak

to her about the letting of her flat and other matters, but in Paris he at once knew better. There was a glamour

over the city. On the third day he wrote to her, and received an answer which procured him a pleasurable

He took his way to her hotel on a bright day with a feeling such as he had often had going to visit an adored

picture. No woman, so far as he remembered, had ever inspired in him this special sen suous and yet

impersonal sensation. He was going to sit and feast his eyes, and come away knowing her no better, but ready

to go and feast his eyes again tomorrow. Such was his feeling, when in the tarnished and ornate little lounge

of a quiet hotel near the river she came to him preceded by a small pageboy who uttered the word,

"Madame," and vanished. Her face, her smile, the poise of her figure, were just as he had pictured, and the

"I have let the flat for you, and like a good steward I bring you some money. How do you like Paris?"

While he put her through this catechism, it seemed to him that he had never seen lips so fine and sensitive,

the lower lip curving just a little upwards, the upper touched at one corner by the least conceivable dimple. It

was like discovering a woman in what had hitherto been a sort of soft and breathedon statue, almost

impersonally admired. She owned that to be alone in Paris was a little difficult; and yet, Paris was so full of

its own life that it was often, she confessed, as innocuous as a desert. Besides, the English were not liked just

"That will hardly be your case," said Jolyon; "you should appeal to the French."

"Well, you must let me take you about while I'm here. We'll start tomorrow. Come and dine at my pet

Jolyon soon found that for those who desired a static condition of the affections, Paris was at once the first

and last place in which to be friendly with a pretty woman. Revelation was alighting like a bird in his heart,

singing: 'Elle est ton reve! Elle est ton reve! Sometimes this seemed natural, sometimes ludicrousa bad

case of elderly rapture. Having once been ostracised by Society, he had never since had any real regard for

conventional morality; but the idea of a love which she could never returnand how could she at his

age?hardly mounted beyond his subconscious mind. He was full, too, of resentment, at the waste and

loneliness of her life. Aware of being some comfort to her, and of the pleasure she clearly took in their many

little outings, he was amiably desirous of doing and saying nothing to destroy that pleasure. It was like

watching a starved plant draw up water, to see her drinkin his companionship. So far as they could tell, no

one knew her address except himself; she was unknown in Paris, and he but little known, so that discretion

seemed unnecessary in those walks, talks, visits to concerts, picturegalleries, theatres, little dinners,

expeditions to Versailles, St. Cloud, even Fontainebleau. And time fledone of those full months without

past to it or future. What in his youth would certainly have been headlong passion, was now perhaps as deep

a feeling, but far gentler, tempered to protective companionship by admiration, hopelessness, and a sense of

chivalry arrested in his veins at least so long as she was there, smiling and happy in their friendship, and

always to him more beautiful and spiritually responsive: for her philosophy of life seemed to march in

admirable step with his own, conditioned by emotion more than by reason, ironically mistrustful, susceptible

to beauty, almost passionately humane and tolerant, yet subject to instinctive rigidities of which as a mere

man he was less capable. And during all this companionable month he never quite lost that feeling with

which he had set out on the first day as if to visit an adored work of art, a wellnigh impersonal desire. The

futureinexorable pendant to the present he took care not to face, for fear of breaking up his untroubled

manner; but he made plans to renew this time in places still more delightful, where the sun was hot and there

were strange things to see and paint. The end came swiftly on the 20th of January with a telegram:

Jolyon received it just as he was setting out to meet her at the Louvre. It brought him up with a round turn.

While he was lotus eating here, his boy, whose philosopher and guide he ought to be, had taken this great

step towards danger, hardship, perhaps even death. He felt disturbed to the soul, realising suddenly how Irene

had twined herself round the roots of his being. Thus threatened with severance, the tie between themfor it

had become a kind of tieno longer had impersonal quality. The tranquil enjoyment of things in common,

Jolyon perceived, was gone for ever. He saw his feeling as it was, in the nature of an infatuation. Ridiculous,

perhaps, but so real that sooner or later it must disclose itself. And now, as it seemed to him, he could not,

must not, make any such disclosure. The news of Jolly stood inexorably in the way. He was proud of this

enlistment; proud of his boy for going off to fight for the country; for on Jolyon's proBoerism, too, Black

Week had left its mark. And so the end was reached before the beginning! Well, luckily he had never made a

When he came into the Gallery she was standing before the 'Virgin of the Rocks,' graceful, absorbed, smiling

and unconscious. 'Have I to give up seeing that?' he thought. 'It's unnatural, so long as she's willing that I

should see her.' He stood, unnoticed, watching her, storing up the image of her figure, envying the picture on

which she was bending that long scrutiny. Twice she turned her head towards the entrance, and he thought:

That sigh, too, was for him! His position was really cruel! To be loyal to his son he must just shake her hand

and go. To be loyal to the feeling in his heart he must at least tell her what that feeling was. Could she, would

"I'm afraid I must go home at once," he said at last. "I shall miss all this awfully."

He had a stumbling sensation in his legs and feet, as if his brain refused to steer him away from her. From the

doorway, he saw her lift her hand and touch its fingers with her lips. He raised his hat solemnly, and did not

The suitDartie versus Dartiefor restitution of those conjugal rights concerning which Winifred was at

heart so deeply undecided, followed the laws of subtraction towards day of judgment. This was not reached

before the Courts rose for Christmas, but the case was third on the list when they sat again. Winifred spent

the Christmas holidays a thought more fashionably than usual, with the matter locked up in her lowcut

bosom. James was particularly liberal to her that Christmas, expressing thereby his sympathy, and relief, at

the approaching dissolution of her marriage with that 'precious rascal,' which his old heart felt but his old lips

The disappearance of Dartie made the fall in Consols a comparatively small matter; and as to the

scandalthe real animus he felt against that fellow, and the increasing lead which property was attaining

over reputation in a true Forsyte about to leave this world, served to drug a mind from which all allusions to

the matter (except his own) were studiously kept. What worried him as a lawyer and a parent was the fear that

Dartie might suddenly turn up and obey the Order of the Court when made. That would be a pretty

howdedo! The fear preyed on him in fact so much that, in presenting Winifred with a large Christmas

cheque, he said: "It's chiefly for that chap out there; to keep him from coming back." It was, of course, to

pitch away good money, but all in the nature of insurance against that bankruptcy which would no longer

hang over him if only the divorce went through; and he questioned Winifred rigorously until she could assure

him that the money had been sent. Poor woman!it cost her many a pang to send what must find its way

into the vanitybag of 'that creature!' Soames, hearing of it, shook his head. They were not dealing with a

Forsyte, reasonably tenacious of his purpose. It was very risky without knowing how the land lay out there.

Still, it would look well with the Court; and he would see that Dreamer brought it out. "I wonder," he said

suddenly, "where that ballet goes after the Argentine"; never omitting a chance of reminder; for he knew that

Winifred still had a weakness, if not for Dartie, at least for not laundering him in public. Though not good at

showing admiration, he admitted that she was behaving extremely well, with all her children at home gaping

like young birds for news of their fatherImogen just on the point of coming out, and Val very restive about

the whole thing. He felt that Val was the real heart of the matter to Winifred, who certainly loved him beyond

her other children. The boy could spoke the wheel of this divorce yet if he set his mind to it. And Soames was

very careful to keep the proximity of the preliminary proceedings from his nephew's ears. He did more. He

asked him to dine at the Remove, and over Val's cigar introduced the subject which he knew to be nearest to

"Well," continued Soames, "that's a very expensive business. Your grandfather isn't likely to consent to it

unless he can make sure that he's not got any other drain on him." And he paused to see whether the boy

Val's thick dark lashes concealed his eyes, but a slight grimace appeared on his wide mouth, and he muttered:

"Yes," said Soames; "I'm afraid it depends on whether he continues to be a drag or not;" and said no more,

But Val was also dreaming in those days of a silverroan palfrey and a girl riding it. Though Crum was in

town and an introduction to Cynthia Dark to be had for the asking, Val did not ask; indeed, he shunned Crum

and lived a life strange even to himself, except in so far as accounts with tailor and livery stable were

concerned. To his mother, his sisters, his young brother, he seemed to spend this Vacation in 'seeing fellows,'

and his evenings sleepily at home. They could not propose anything in daylight that did not meet with the one

response: "Sorry; I've got to see a fellow"; and he was put to extraordinary shifts to get in and out of the

house unobserved in riding clothes; until, being made a member of the Goat's Club, he was able to transport

them there, where he could change unregarded and slip off on his hack to Richmond Park. He kept his

growing sentiment religiously to himself. Not for a world would he breathe to the 'fellows,' whom he was not

'seeing,' anything so ridiculous from the point of view of their creed and his. But he could not help its

destroying his other appetites. It was coming between him and the legitimate pleasures of youth at last on its

own in a way which must, he knew, make him a milksop in the eyes of Crum. All he cared for was to dress in

his last created riding togs, and steal away to the Robin Hill Gate, where presently the silver roan would

come demurely sidling with its slim and darkhaired rider, and in the glades bare of leaves they would go off

side by side, not talking very much, riding races sometimes, and sometimes holding hands. More than once of

an evening, in a moment of expansion, he had been tempted to tell his mother how this shy sweet cousin had

stolen in upon him and wrecked his 'life.' But bitter experience, that all persons above thirtyfive were

spoilsports, prevented him. After all, he supposed he would have to go through with College, and she would

have to 'come out,' before they could be married; so why complicate things, so long as he could see her?

Sisters were teasing and unsympathetic beings, a brother worse, so there was no one to, confide in. Ah! And

this beastly divorce business! What a misfortune to have a name which other people hadn't! If only he had

been called Gordon or Scott or Howard or something fairly common! But Dartiethere wasn't another in the

directory! One might as well have been named Morkin for all the covert it afforded! So matters went on, till

one day in the middle of January the silverroan palfrey and its rider were missing at the tryst. Lingering in

the cold, he debated whether he should ride on to the house: But Jolly might be there, and the memory of

their dark encounter was still fresh within him. One could not be always fighting with her brother! So he

returned dismally to town and spent an evening plunged in gloom. At breakfast next day he noticed that his

mother had on an unfamiliar dress and was wearing her hat. The dress was black with a glimpse of peacock

blue, the hat black and largeshe looked exceptionally well. But when after breakfast she said to him,

"Come in here, Val," and led the way to the drawingroom, he was at once beset by qualms. Winifred

carefully shut the door and passed her handkerchief over her lips; inhaling the violette de Parme with which it

"I've got to see...." began Val, but something in her face stopped him. "I say," he said, "you don't mean ...."

"Yes, I have to go to the Court this morning." Already!that dd business which he had almost

succeeded in forgetting, since nobody ever mentioned it. In selfcommiseration he stood picking little bits of

skin off his fingers. Then noticing that his mother's lips were all awry, he said impulsively: "All right,

mother; I'll come. The brutes!" What brutes he did not know, but the expression exactly summed up their

"I suppose I'd better change into a 'shooter,"' he muttered, escaping to his room. He put on the 'shooter,' a

higher collar, a pearl pin, and his neatest grey spats, to a somewhat blasphemous accompaniment. Looking at

himself in the glass, he said, "Well, I'm damned if I'm going to show anything!" and went down. He found his

grandfather's carriage at the door, and his mother in furs, with the appearance of one going to a Mansion

House Assembly. They seated themselves side by side in the closed barouche, and all the way to the Courts

of Justice Val made but one allusion to the business in hand. "There'll be nothing about those pearls, will

"Oh, no," she said, "it'll be quite harmless today. Your grandmother wanted to come too, but I wouldn't let

her. I thought you could take care of me. You look so nice, Val. Just pull your coat collar up a little more at

"No, dear; it's all arranged." And she patted his hand. The determined front she was putting on it stayed the

turmoil in Val's chest, and he busied himself in drawing his gloves off and on. He had taken what he now saw

was the wrong pair to go with his spats; they should have been grey, but were deerskin of a dark tan; whether

to keep them on or not he could not decide. They arrived soon after ten. It was his first visit to the Law

"By Jove!" he said as they passed into the hall, "this'd make four or five jolly good racket courts."

"Here you are!" he said, without shaking hands, as if the event had made them too familiar for such

A sensation such as he had known when going in to bat was playing now in the top of Val's chest, but he

followed his mother and uncle doggedly, looking at no more than he could help, and thinking that the place

smelled 'fuggy.' People seemed to be lurking everywhere, and he plucked Soames by the sleeve.

Val entered behind them, nettled and with his head up. In this confounded hole everybody and there were a

good many of them seemed sitting on everybody else's knee, though really divided from each other by

pews; and Val had a feeling that they might all slip down together into the well. This, however, was but a

momentary visionof mahogany, and black gowns, and white blobs of wigs and faces and papers, all rather

secret and whisperybefore he was sitting next his mother in the front row, with his back to it all, glad of

her violette de Parme, and taking off his gloves for the last time. His mother was looking at him; he was

suddenly conscious that she had really wanted him there next to her, and that he counted for something in this

All right! He would show them! Squaring his shoulders, he crossed his legs and gazed inscrutably at his

spats. But just then an 'old Johnny' in a gown and long wig, looking awfully like a funny raddled woman,

came through a door into the high pew opposite, and he had to uncross his legs hastily, and stand up with

It seemed to Val unspeakably disgusting to have one's name called out like this in public! And, suddenly

conscious that someone nearly behind him had begun talking about his family, he screwed his face round to

see an old bewigged buffer, who spoke as if he were eating his own wordsqueerlooking old cuss, the

sort of man he had seen once or twice dining at Park Lane and punishing the port; he knew now where they

'dug them up.' All the same he found the old buffer quite fascinating, and would have continued to stare if his

mother had not touched his arm. Reduced to gazing before him, he fixed his eyes on the Judge's face instead.

Why should that old 'sportsman' with his sarcastic mouth and his quickmoving eyes have the power to

meddle with their private affairshadn't he affairs of his own, just as many, and probably just as nasty? And

there moved in Val, like an illness, all the deepseated individualism of his breed. The voice behind him

droned along: "Differences about money mattersextravagance of the respondent" (What a word! Was that

his father?)"strained situationfrequent absences on the part of Mr. Dartie. My client, very rightly, your

Ludship will agree, was anxious to check a coursebut lead to ruinremonstratedgambling at cards and

on the racecourse" ('That's right!' thought Val, 'pile it on!') "Crisis early in October, when the respondent

wrote her this letter from his Club." Val sat up and his ears burned. "I propose to read it with the emendations

necessary to the epistle of a gentleman who has been shall we say dining, me Lud?"

"'You will not get the chance to insult me again in my own house. I am leaving the country tomorrow. It's

played out'an expression, your Ludship, not unknown in the mouths of those who have not met with

"'I am tired of being insulted by you.' My client will tell your Ludship that these socalled insults consisted in

her calling him 'the limit' a very mild expression, I venture to suggest, in all the circumstances."

Val glanced sideways at his mother's impassive face, it had a hunted look in the eyes. 'Poor mother,' he

"And next day, me Lud, the respondent left by the steamship Tuscarora for Buenos Aires. Since then we have

nothing from him but a cabled refusal in answer to the letter which my client wrote the following day in great

distress, begging him to return to her. With your Ludship's permission. I shall now put Mrs. Dartie in the

When his mother rose, Val had a tremendous impulse to rise too and say: 'Look here! I'm going to see you

jolly well treat her decently.' He subdued it, however; heard her saying, 'the truth, the whole truth, and

nothing but the truth,' and looked up. She made a rich figure of it, in her furs and large hat, with a slight flush

on her cheekbones, calm, matteroffact; and he felt proud of her thus confronting all these 'confounded

lawyers.' The examination began. Knowing that this was only the preliminary to divorce, Val followed with a

certain glee the questions framed so as to give the impression that she really wanted his father back. It

"Now, why did your husband leave younot because you called him 'the limit,' you know?"

Val saw his uncle lift his eyes to the witness box, without moving his face; heard a shuffle of papers behind

him; and instinct told him that the issue was in peril. Had Uncle Soames and the old buffer behind made a

"But you supplied the money. Do you suggest that he left you to better his position?"

'The brute! The old brute, and nothing but the brute!' thought Val suddenly. 'He smells a rat he's trying to get

at the pastry!' And his heart stood still. Ifif he did, then, of course, he would know that his mother didn't

really want his father back. His mother spoke again, a thought more fashionably.

"No, my Lord, but you see I had refused to give him any more money. It took him a long time to believe that,

Something in the Judge's face, in the sound of the papers behind him, in the sudden crossing of his uncle's

legs, told Val that she had made just the right answer. 'Crafty!' he thought; 'by Jove, what humbug it all is!'

Val's hands, slack behind him, became fists. What business had that Judge to make things human suddenly?

To make his mother speak out of her heart, and say what, perhaps, she didn't know herself, before all these

people! It wasn't decent. His mother answered, rather low: "Yes, my Lord." Val saw the Judge nod. 'Wish I

could take a cockshy at your head!' he thought irreverently, as his mother came back to her seat beside him.

Witnesses to his father's departure and continued absence followedone of their own maids even, which

struck Val as particularly beastly; there was more talking, all humbug; and then the Judge pronounced the

decree for restitution, and they got up to go. Val walked out behind his mother, chin squared, eyelids

drooped, doing his level best to despise everybody. His mother's voice in the corridor roused him from an

"You behaved beautifully, dear. It was such a comfort to have you. Your uncle and I are going to lunch."

"All right," said Val; "I shall have time to go and see that fellow." And, parting from them abruptly, he ran

down the stairs and out into the air. He bolted into a hansom, and drove to the Goat's Club. His thoughts were

on Holly and what he must do before her brother showed her this thing in tomorrow's paper.

When Val had left them Soames and Winifred made their way to the Cheshire Cheese. He had suggested it as

a meeting place with Mr. Bellby. At that early hour of noon they would have it to themselves, and Winifred

had thought it would be 'amusing' to see this farfamed hostelry. Having ordered a light repast, to the

consternation of the waiter, they awaited its arrival together with that of Mr. Bellby, in silent reaction after

the hour and a half's suspense on the tenterhooks of publicity. Mr. Bellby entered presently, preceded by his

nose, as cheerful as they were glum. Well! they had got the decree of restitution, and what was the matter

"Quite," said Soames in a suitably low voice, "but we shall have to begin again to get evidence. He'll

probably try the divorceit will look fishy if it comes out that we knew of misconduct from the start. His

"Pho!" said Mr. Bellby cheerily, "he'll forget! Why, man, he'll have tried a hundred cases between now and

then. Besides, he's bound by precedent to give ye your divorce, if the evidence is satisfactory. We won't let

um know that Mrs. Dartie had knowledge of the facts. Dreamer did it very nicelyhe's got a fatherly touch

"And I compliment ye, Mrs. Dartie," went on Mr. Bellby; "ye've a natural gift for giving evidence. Steady as

Here the, waiter arrived with three plates balanced on one arm, and the remark: "I 'urried up the pudden, sir.

Mr. Bellby applauded his forethought with a dip of his nose. But Soames and Winifred looked with dismay at

their light lunch of graviffred brown masses, touching them gingerly with their forks in the hope of

distinguishing the bodies of the tasty little song givers. Having begun, however, they found they were

hungrier than they thought, and finished the lot, with a glass of port apiece. Conversation turned on the war.

Soames thought Ladysmith would fall, and it might last a year. Bellby thought it would be over by the

summer. Both agreed that they wanted more men. There was nothing for it but complete victory, since it was

now a question of prestige. Winifred brought things back to more solid ground by saying that she did not

want the divorce suit to come on till after the summer holidays had begun at Oxford, then the boys would

have forgotten about it before Val had to go up again; the London season too would be over. The lawyers

reassured her, an interval of six months was necessaryafter that the earlier the better. People were now

beginning to come in, and they partedSoames to the city, Bellby to his chambers, Winifred in a hansom to

Park Lane to let her mother know how she had fared. The issue had been so satisfactory on the whole that it

was considered advisable to tell James, who never failed to say day after day that he didn't know about

Winifred's affair, he couldn't tell. As his sands ran out; the importance of mundane matters became

increasingly grave to him, as if he were feeling: 'I must make the most of it, and worry well; I shall soon have

He received the report grudgingly. It was a newfangled way of going about things, and he didn't know! But

"I expect you'll have a lot of expense. That's a new hat you've got on. Why doesn't Val come and see us?"

Winifred promised to bring him to dinner soon. And, going home, she sought her bedroom where she could

be alone. Now that her husband had been ordered back into her custody with a view to putting him away from

her for ever, she would try once more to find out from her sore and lonely heart what she really wanted.

The morning had been misty, verging on frost, but the sun came out while Val was jogging towards the

Roehampton Gate, whence he would canter on to the usual tryst. His spirits were rising rapidly. There had

been nothing so very terrible in the morning's proceedings beyond the general disgrace of violated privacy. 'If

we were engaged!' he thought, 'what happens wouldn't matter.' He felt, indeed, like human society, which

kicks and clamours at the results of matrimony, and hastens to get married. And he galloped over the

winterdried grass of Richmond Park, fearing to be late. But again he was alone at the trysting spot, and this

second defection on the part of Holly upset him dreadfully. He could not go back without seeing her today!

Emerging from the Park, he proceeded towards Robin Hill. He could not make up his mind for whom to ask.

Suppose her father were back, or her sister or brother were in! He decided to gamble, and ask for them all

first, so that if he were in luck and they were not there, it would be quite natural in the end to ask for Holly;

"Oh! thanks. Might I take my horse round to the stables? And would you sayher cousin, Mr. Val Dartie."

When he returned she was in the hall, very flushed and shy. She led him to the far end, and they sat down on

"Then!" cried Val, and diving forward, he seized her hand. She tried to withdraw it, failed, gave up the

"First of all," he said, "I want to tell you something about my family. My Dad, you know, isn't altogetherI

mean, he's left my mother and they're trying to divorce him; so they've ordered him to come back, you see.

Her eyes deepened in colour and fearful interest; her hand squeezed his. But the gambler in Val was roused

'Of course there's nothing very much at present, but there will be, I expect, before it's over; divorce suits are

beastly, you know. I wanted to tell you, becausebecauseyou ought to knowif" and he began to

stammer, gazing at her troubled eyes, "ifif you're going to be a darling and love me, Holly. I love

youever so; and I want to be engaged." He had done it in a manner so inadequate that he could have

punched his own head; and dropping on his knees, he tried to get nearer to that soft, troubled face. "You do

love medon't you? If you don't I...." There was a moment of silence and suspense, so awful that he could

hear the sound of a mowing machine far out on the lawn pretending there was grass to cut. Then she swayed

He had dreamed of this moment, but always in an imperative mood, as the masterful young lover, and now he

felt humble, touched, trembly. He was afraid to stir off his knees lest he should break the spell; lest, if he did,

she should shrink and deny her own surrenderso tremulous was she in his grasp, with her eyelids closed

and his lips nearing them. Her eyes opened, seemed to swim a little; he pressed his lips to hers. Suddenly he

sprang up; there had been footsteps, a sort of startled grunt. He looked round. No one! But the long curtains

"All right!" he said, "I don't care a bit now we're engaged," and striding towards the curtains, he drew them

aside. There at the fireplace in the hall stood Jolly, with his back elaborately turned. Val went forward. Jolly

With the best intentions in the world, Val could not help admiring him at that moment; his face was clear, his

"Oh!" said Jolly; "you come this way," and he crossed the hall. Val followed. At the study door he felt a

Jolly opened the door, and they all three went in. Once in the little room, they stood in a sort of triangle on

three corners of the worn Turkey carpet; awkwardly upright, not looking at each other, quite incapable of

"This is our house," he said; "I'm not going to insult you in it. But my father's away. I'm in charge of my

"I think you did," said Jolly. "If you hadn't meant to, you'd have spoken to me, or waited for my father to

Jolly's face crimsoned, then clouded. Some struggle was evidently taking place in him; and Val and Holly

stared at him, so clearly was that struggle marked; they could even hear him breathing. Then his face cleared

"I haven't forgotten that you're a fireeater," said Jolly slowly, "and I think that's about all you are; or that

Val heard a gasp above the sound of his own hard breathing, and saw Holly's face poked a little forward, very

"Yes," went on Jolly with a sort of smile, "we shall soon see. I'm going to join the Imperial Yeomanry, and I

Val's head jerked on its stem. It was like a blow between the eyes, so utterly unthought of, so extreme and

ugly in the midst of his dreaming; and he looked at Holly with eyes grown suddenly, touchingly haggard.

"Sit down!" said Jolly. "Take your time! Think it over well." And he himself sat down on the arm of his

Val did not sit down; he stood with hands thrust deep into his breeches' pocketshands clenched and

quivering. The full awfulness of this decision one way or the other knocked at his mind with double knocks

as of an angry postman. If he did not take that 'dare' he was disgraced in Holly's eyes, and in the eyes of that

young enemy, her brute of a brother. Yet if he took it, ah! then all would vanishher face, her eyes, her hair,

And they both looked at Holly. She had recoiled against the bookshelves reaching to the ceiling; her dark

head leaned against Gibbon's Roman Empire, her eyes in a sort of soft grey agony were fixed on Val. And he,

who had not much gift of insight, had suddenly a gleam of vision. She would be proud of her brother that

enemy! She would be ashamed of him! His hands came out of his pockets as if lifted by a spring.

Holly's faceoh! it was queer! He saw her flush, start forward. He had done the right thingher face was

shining with wistful admiration. Jolly stood up and made a little bow as who should say: 'You've passed.'

Recovering from the impetus which had carried him to that decision, Val looked at him maliciously from

under his lashes. 'All right,' he thought, 'one to you. I shall have to joinbut I'll get back on you somehow.'

"We'll meet at the main Recruiting Office, then," said Jolly, "at twelve o'clock." And, opening the window, he

went out on to the terrace, conforming to the creed which had made him retire when he surprised them in the

The confusion in the mind of Val thus left alone with her for whom he had paid this sudden price was

extreme. The mood of 'showing off' was still, however, uppermost. One must do the wretched thing with an

"We shall get plenty of riding and shooting, anyway," he said; "that's one comfort." And it gave him a sort of

grim pleasure to hear the sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of her heart.

"Oh! the war'll soon be over," he said; "perhaps we shan't even have to go out. I don't care, except for you."

He would be out of the way of that beastly divorce. It was an illwind! He felt her warm hand slip into his.

Jolly thought he had stopped their loving each other, did he? He held her tightly round the waist, looking at

her softly through his lashes, smiling to cheer her up, promising to come down and see her soon, feeling

somehow six inches taller and much more in command of her than he had ever dared feel before. Many times

he kissed her before he mounted and rode back to town. So, swiftly, on the least provocation, does the

Dinner parties were not now given at James' in Park Laneto every house the moment comes when Master

or Mistress is no longer 'up to it'; no more can nine courses be served to twenty mouths above twenty fine

white expanses; nor does the household cat any longer wonder why she is suddenly shut up.

So with something like excitement Emilywho at seventy would still have liked a little feast and fashion

now and thenordered dinner for six instead of two, herself wrote a number of foreign words on cards, and

arranged the flowersmimosa from the Riviera, and white Roman hyacinths not from Rome. There would

only be, of course, James and herself, Soames, Winifred, Val, and Imogenbut she liked to pretend a little

and dally in imagination with the glory of the past. She so dressed herself that James remarked:

But Emily knew that the necks of women are protected by love of shining, unto fourscore years, and she only

"Let me put you on one of those dickies I got you, James; then you'll only have to change your trousers, and

But he suffered the change to be made till his neck also shone, murmuring vaguely:

A little brighter in the eye, with rather more colour than usual in his cheeks, he took his seat in the

"I've made it a proper dinner party," Emily said comfortably; "I thought it would be good practice for

James uttered an indeterminate sound, thinking of Imogen as she used to climb about his knee or pull

"There you go," murmured James; "she'd much better stay at home and look after her mother." A second

Dartie carrying off his pretty granddaughter would finish him! He had never quite forgiven Emily for having

"Where's Warmson?" he said suddenly. "I should like a glass of Madeira tonight."

"No, no!" said James, the tips of his ears quivering with vehemence, and his eyes fixed on an object seen by

him alone. "Look here, Warmson, you go to the inner cellar, and on the middle shelf of the end bin on the left

you'll see seven bottles; take the one in the centre, and don't shake it. It's the last of the Madeira I had from

Mr. Jolyon when we came in herenever been moved; it ought to be in prime condition still; but I don't

"I was keeping it for our golden wedding," said James suddenly, "but I shan't live three years at my age."

"I ought to have got it up myself," murmured James, "he'll shake it as likely as not." And he sank into silent

recollection of long moments among the open gasjets, the cobwebs and the good smell of winesoaked

corks, which had been appetiser to so many feasts. In the wine from that cellar was written the history of the

forty odd years since he had come to the Park Lane house with his young bride, and of the many generations

of friends and acquaintances who had passed into the unknown; its depleted bins preserved the record of

family festivityall the marriages, births, deaths of his kith and kin. And when he was gone there it would

be, and he didn't know what would become of it. It'd be drunk or spoiled, he shouldn't wonder!

>From that deep reverie the entrance of his son dragged him, followed very soon by that of Winifred and her

They went down arminarmJames with Imogen, the debutante, because his pretty grandchild cheered

him; Soames with Winifred; Emily with Val, whose eyes lighting on the oysters brightened. This was to be a

proper full 'blowout' with 'fizz' and port! And he felt in need of it, after what he had done that day, as yet

undivulged. After the first glass or two it became pleasant to have this bombshell up his sleeve, this piece of

sensational patriotism, or example, rather, of personal daring, to displayfor his pleasure in what he had

done for his Queen and Country was so far entirely personal. He was now a 'blood,' indissolubly connected

with guns and horses; he had a right to swaggernot, of course, that he was going to. He should just

announce it quietly, when there was a pause. And, glancing down the menu, he determined on 'Bombe aux

fraises' as the proper moment; there would be a certain solemnity while they were eating that. Once or twice

before they reached that rosy summit of the dinner he was attacked by remembrance that his grandfather was

never told anything! Still, the old boy was drinking Madeira, and looking jolly fit! Besides, he ought to be

pleased at this setoff to the disgrace of the divorce. The sight of his uncle opposite, too, was a sharp

incentive. He was so far from being a sportsman that it would be worth a lot to see his face. Besides, better to

tell his mother in this way than privately, which might upset them both! He was sorry for her, but after all one

His grandfather's voice travelled to him thinly. "Val, try a little of the Madeira with your ice. You won't get

Val watched the slow liquid filling his glass, the essential oil of the old wine glazing the surface; inhaled its

aroma, and thought: 'Now for it!' It was a rich moment. He sipped, and a gentle glow spread in his veins,

already heated. With a rapid look round, he said, "I joined the Imperial Yeomanry today, Granny," and

"It's only that Val has joined the Yeomanry, James; it's very nice for him. He'll look his best in uniform."

"Joined therubbish!" came from James, tremulously loud. "You can't see two yards before your nose.

Hehe'll have to go out there. Why! he'll be fighting before he knows where he is."

Val saw Imogen's eyes admiring him, and his mother still and fashionable with her handkerchief before her

He heard his grandmother's admiring, "Well, Val, that was plucky of you;" was conscious of Warmson

deferentially filling his champagne glass; and of his grandfather's voice moaning: "I don't know what'll

Imogen was patting his shoulder, his uncle looking at him sidelong; only his mother sat unmoving, till,

"It's all right, you know; we shall soon have them on the run. I only hope I shall come in for something."

He felt elated, sorry, tremendously important all at once. This would show Uncle Soames, and all the

Forsytes, how to be sportsmen. He had certainly done something heroic and exceptional in giving his age as

"Won't they be astonished at Timothy's!" burst out Imogen. "I'd give anything to see their faces. Do you have

His uncle's voice produced a slight chill in the pit of Val's stomach. Made him? How answer that? He was

"Well, I think it's very plucky of Val. I'm sure he'll make a splendid soldier; he's just the figure for it. We

"What had young Jolly Forsyte to do with it? Why did you go together?" pursued Soames, uncannily

"I'm not," mumbled Val, "but I wasn't going to be beaten by him." He saw his uncle look at him quite

differently, as if approving. His grandfather was nodding too, his grandmother tossing her head. They all

approved of his not being beaten by that cousin of his. There must be a reason! Val was dimly conscious of

some disturbing point outside his range of vision; as it might be, the unlocated centre of a cyclone. And,

staring at his uncle's face, he had a quite unaccountable vision of a woman with dark eyes, gold hair, and a

white neck, who smelt nice, and had pretty silken clothes which he had liked feeling when he was quite

small. By Jove, yes! Aunt Irene! She used to kiss him, and he had bitten her arm once, playfully, because he

"He's away in Paris," Val said, staring at the very queer expression on his uncle's face, likelike that of a

"Artists!" said James. The word coming from the very bottom of his soul, broke up the dinner.

Opposite his mother in the cab going home, Val tasted the after fruits of heroism, like medlars overripe.

She only said, indeed, that he must go to his tailor's at once and have his uniform properly made, and not just

put up with what they gave him. But he could feel that she was very much upset. It was on his lips to console

her with the spoken thought that he would be out of the way of that beastly divorce, but the presence of

Imogen, and the knowledge that his mother would not be out of the way, restrained him. He felt aggrieved

that she did not seem more proud of him. When Imogen had gone to bed, he risked the emotional.

"Well, I must make the best of it. We must try and get you a commission as soon as we can; then you won't

"I hope they won't worry you much. I must take you about to get the things tomorrow. Goodnight; kiss

With that kiss, soft and hot, between his eyes, and those words, 'I hope they won't worry you much,' in his

ears, he sat down to a cigarette, before a dying fire. The heat was out of himthe glow of cutting a dash. It

was all a damned heartaching bore. 'I'll be even with that chap Jolly,' he thought, trailing up the stairs, past

the room where his mother was biting her pillow to smother a sense of desolation which was trying to make

And soon only one of the diners at James' was awakeSoames, in his bedroom above his father's.

So that fellow Jolyon was in Pariswhat was he doing there? Hanging round Irene! The last report from

Polteed had hinted that there might be something soon. Could it be this? That fellow, with his beard and his

cursed amused way of speakingson of the old man who had given him the nickname 'Man of Property,' and

bought the fatal house from him. Soames had ever resented having had to sell the house at Robin Hill; never

Reckless of the cold, he threw his window up and gazed out across the Park. Bleak and dark the January

night; little sound of traffic; a frost coming; bare trees; a star or two. 'I'll see Polteed tomorrow,' he thought.

Jolyon, who had crossed from Calais by night, arrived at Robin Hill on Sunday morning. He had sent no

word beforehand, so walked up from the station, entering his domain by the coppice gate. Coming to the log

seat fashioned out of an old fallen trunk, he sat down, first laying his overcoat on it.

'Lumbago!' he thought; 'that's what love ends in at my time of life!' And suddenly Irene seemed very near,

just as she had been that day of rambling at Fontainebleau when they had sat on a log to eat their lunch.

Hauntingly near! Odour drawn out of fallen leaves by the palefiltering sunlight soaked his nostrils. 'I'm glad

it isn't spring,' he thought. With the scent of sap, and the song of birds, and the bursting of the blossoms, it

would have been unbearable! 'I hope I shall be over it by then, old fool that I am!' and picking up his coat, he

Near the top a hoarse barking greeted him. Up on the lawn above the fernery he could see his old dog

Balthasar. The animal, whose dim eyes took his master for a stranger, was warning the world against him.

Jolyon gave his special whistle. Even at that distance of a hundred yards and more he could see the dawning

recognition in the obese brownwhite body. The old dog got off his haunches, and his tail, closecurled over

his back, began a feeble, excited fluttering; he came waddling forward, gathered momentum, and disappeared

over the edge of the fernery. Jolyon expected to meet him at the wicket gate, but Balthasar was not there, and,

rather alarmed, he turned into the fernery. On his fat side, looking up with eyes already glazing, the old dog

"What is it, my poor old man?" cried Jolyon. Balthasar's curled and fluffy tail just moved; his filming eyes

Jolyon knelt down; his eyes, very dimmed, could hardly see the slowly ceasing heave of the dog's side. He

"What is it, dear man? Where are you hurt?" The tail fluttered once; the eyes lost the look of life. Jolyon

passed his hands all over the inert warm bulk. There was nothingthe heart had simply failed in that obese

body from the emotion of his master's return. Jolyon could feel the muzzle, where a few whitish bristles

grew, cooling already against his lips. He stayed for some minutes kneeling; with his hand beneath the

stiffening head. The body was very heavy when he bore it to the top of the field; leaves had drifted there, and

he strewed it with a covering of them; there was no wind, and they would keep him from curious eyes until

the afternoon. 'I'll bury him myself,' he thought. Eighteen years had gone since he first went into the St. John's

Wood house with that tiny puppy in his pocket. Strange that the old dog should die just now! Was it an

omen? He turned at the gate to look back at that russet mound, then went slowly towards the house, very

June was at home; she had come down hotfoot on hearing the news of Jolly's enlistment. His patriotism had

conquered her feeling for the Boers. The atmosphere of his house was strange and pocketty when Jolyon

came in and told them of the dog Balthasar's death. The news had a unifying effect. A link with the past had

snapped the dog Balthasar! Two of them could remember nothing before his day; to June he represented

the last years of her grandfather; to Jolyon that life of domestic stress and aesthetic struggle before he came

In the afternoon he and Jolly took picks and spades and went out to the field. They chose a spot close to the

russet mound, so that they need not carry him far, and, carefully cutting off the surface turf, began to dig.

"I admire you for it, old boy. I don't believe I should have done it at your agetoo much of a Forsyte, I'm

afraid. But I suppose the type gets thinner with each generation. Your son, if you have one, may be a pure

"No, my dear, that you clearly are not." Jolly shook his head, and they dug again.

"Strange life a dog's," said Jolyon suddenly: "The only fourfooter with rudiments of altruism and a sense of

At so searching a question from one to whom it was impossible to make a light reply, Jolyon stood for a

"What do you mean by God?" he said; "there are two irreconcilable ideas of God. There's the Unknowable

Creative Principleone believes in That. And there's the Sum of altruism in man naturally one believes in

Jolyon stared. Christ, the link between those two ideas! Out of the mouth of babes! Here was orthodoxy

scientifically explained at last! The sublime poem of the Christ life was man's attempt to join those two

irreconcilable conceptions of God. And since the Sum of human altruism was as much a part of the

Unknowable Creative Principle as anything else in Nature and the Universe, a worse link might have been

chosen after all! Funnyhow one went through life without seeing it in that sort of way!

Jolly frowned. "Of course, my first year we talked a good bit about that sort of thing. But in the second year

Jolyon remembered that he also had talked a good deal about it his first year at Cambridge, and given it up in

"I suppose," said Jolly, "it's the second God, you mean, that old Balthasar had a sense of."

"Yes, or he would never have burst his poor old heart because of something outside himself."

Jolyon shook his head. "No, dogs are not pure Forsytes, they love something outside themselves."

"Well, I think I'm one," he said. "You know, I only enlisted because I dared Val Dartie to."

"Ah!" muttered Jolyon. So the feud went on, unto the third generationthis modern feud which had no overt

'Shall I tell the boy about it?' he thought. But to what endif he had to stop short of his own part?

And Jolly thought: 'It's for Holly to let him know about that chap. If she doesn't, it means she doesn't want

him told, and I should be sneaking. Anyway, I've stopped it. I'd better leave well alone!'

"Now, old man, I think it's big enough." And, resting on their spades, they gazed down into the hole where a

"We'll lift him very gently, leaves and all. I'd rather not see him again. I'll take his head. Now! "

With extreme care they raised the old dog's body, whose faded tan and white showed here and there under the

leaves stirred by the wind. They laid it, heavy, cold, and unresponsive, in the grave, and Jolly spread more

leaves over it, while Jolyon, deeply afraid to show emotion before his son, began quickly shovelling the earth

on to that still shape. There went the past! If only there were a joyful future to look forward to! It was like

stamping down earth on one's own life. They replaced the turf carefully on the smooth little mound, and,

grateful that they had spared each other's feelings, returned to the house arminarm.

On Forsyte 'Change news of the enlistment spread fast, together with the report that June, not to be outdone,

was going to become a Red Cross nurse. These events were so extreme, so subversive of pure Forsyteism, as

to have a binding effect upon the family, and Timothy's was thronged next Sunday afternoon by members

trying to find out what they thought about it all, and exchange with each other a sense of family credit. Giles

and Jesse Hayman would no longer defend the coast but go to South Africa quite soon; Jolly and Val would

The retirement from Spion Kop and the absence of any good news from the seat of war imparted an air of

reality to all this, clinched in startling fashion by Timothy. The youngest of the old Forsytes scarcely

eighty, in fact popularly supposed to resemble their father, 'Superior Dosset,' even in his bestknown

characteristic of drinking Sherryhad been invisible for so many years that he was almost mythical. A long

generation had elapsed since the risks of a publisher's business had worked on his nerves at the age of forty,

so that he had got out with a mere thirtyfive thousand pounds in the world, and started to make his living by

careful investment. Putting by every year, at compound interest, he had doubled his capital in forty years

without having once known what it was like to shake in his shoes over money matters. He was now putting

aside some two thousand a year, and, with the care he was taking of himself, expected, so Aunt Hester said,

to double his capital again before he died. What he would do with it then, with his sisters dead and himself

dead, was often mockingly queried by free spirits such as Francie, Euphemia, or young Nicholas' second,

Christopher, whose spirit was so free that he had actually said he was going on the stage. All admitted,

however, that this was best known to Timothy himself, and possibly to Soames, who never divulged a secret.

Those few Forsytes who had seen him reported a man of thick and robust appearance, not very tall, with a

brownred complexion, grey hair, and little of the refinement of feature with which most of the Forsytes had

been endowed by 'Superior Dosset's' wife, a woman of some beauty and a gentle temperament. It was known

that he had taken surprising interest in the war, sticking flags into a map ever since it began, and there was

uneasiness as to what would happen if the English were driven into the sea, when it would be almost

impossible for him to put the flags in the right places. As to his knowledge of family movements or his views

about them, little was known, save that Aunt Hester was always declaring that he was very upset. It was,

then, in the nature of a portent when Forsytes, arriving on the Sunday after the evacuation of Spion Kop,

became conscious, one after the other, of a presence seated in the only really comfortable armchair, back to

the light, concealing the lower part of his face with a large hand, and were greeted by the awed voice of Aunt

Timothy's greeting to them all was somewhat identical; and rather, as it were, passed over by him than

Francie was present, and Eustace had come in his car; Winifred had brought Imogen, breaking the ice of the

restitution proceedings with the warmth of family appreciation at Val's enlistment; and Marian Tweetyman

with the last news of Giles and Jesse. These with Aunt Juley and Hester, young Nicholas, Euphemia, andof

all people!George, who had come with Eustace in the car, constituted an assembly worthy of the family's

palmiest days. There was not one chair vacant in the whole of the little drawingroom, and anxiety was felt

The constraint caused by Timothy's presence having worn off a little, conversation took a military turn.

George asked Aunt Juley when she was going out with the Red Cross, almost reducing her to a state of

Young Nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation, intimated that of course his mother was very

"The Dromios are off, I hear," said George, turning to Marian Tweetyman; "we shall all be there soon. En

Aunt Juley gurgled, George was so droll! Should Hester get Timothy's map? Then he could show them all

George pursued his image of the Forsyte advance, addressing Timothy as Field Marshal; and Imogen, whom

he had noted at once for 'a pretty filly,'as Vivandiere; and holding his top hat between his knees, he began

to beat it with imaginary drumsticks. The reception accorded to his fantasy was mixed. All laughedGeorge

was licensed; but all felt that the family was being 'rotted'; and this seemed to them unnatural, now that it was

going to give five of its members to the service of the Queen. George might go too far; and there was relief

when he got up, offered his arm to Aunt Juley, marched up to Timothy, saluted him, kissed his aunt with

mock passion, said, "Oh! what a treat, dear papa! Come on, Eustace!" and walked out, followed by the grave

Aunt Juley's bewildered, "Fancy not waiting for the map! You mustn't mind him, Timothy. He's so droll!"

"I don't know what things are comin' to," he was heard to say. "What's all this about goin' out there? That's

Just then Aunt Hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby with eruptions. With the assistance of

Euphemia it was laid on the piano, a small Colwood grand, last played on, it was believed, the summer before

Aunt Ann died, thirteen years ago. Timothy rose. He walked over to the piano, and stood looking at his map

"There you are," he said; "that's the position up to date; and very poor it is. H'm!"

"Yes," said Francie, greatly daring, "but how are you going to alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men?"

"Men!" said Timothy; "you don't want menwastin' the country's money. You want a Napoleon, he'd settle

"That's their business," replied Timothy. "What have we kept the Army up forto eat their heads off in time

of peace! They ought to be ashamed of themselves, comin' on the country to help them like this! Let every

"Volunteerin', indeed! Throwin' good money after bad! We must save! Conserve energy that's the only way."

And with a prolonged sound, not quite a sniff and not quite a snort, he trod on Euphemia's toe, and went out,

The effect of something said with conviction by one who has evidently made a sacrifice to say it is ever

considerable. And the eight Forsytes left behind, all women except young Nicholas, were silent for a moment

"Really, I think he's right, you know. After all, what is the Army for? They ought to have known. It's only

"My dear!" cried Aunt Juley, "but they've been so progressive. Think of their giving up their scarlet. They

were always so proud of it. And now they all look like convicts. Hester and I were saying only yesterday we

were sure they must feel it very much. Fancy what the Iron Duke would have said!"

"I do so wonder what Jolyon's boy is like. To think we've never seen him! His father must be so proud of

Aunt Hester's shoulder was seen to mount suddenly, as if to ward off her sister's next remark, for Juley's

"We had dear little Mrs. MacAnder here yesterday, just back from Paris. And whom d'you think she saw

"I was going to say," said Aunt Juley severely, "a fairbearded gentleman. And not a day older; she was

"Oh! tell us about her, Auntie," cried Imogen; "I can just remember her. She's the skeleton in the family

"She wasn't much of a skeleton as I remember her," murmured Euphemia, "extremely wellcovered."

"I'll tell you, my child," said Francie; "a kind of modern Venus, very welldressed."

Euphemia said sharply: "Venus was never dressed, and she had blue eyes of melting sapphire."

"She has six children," said Aunt Juley; "it's very proper she should be careful."

"Was Uncle Soames awfully fond of her?" pursued the inexorable Imogen, moving her dark luscious eyes

"Well, my dear," said Francie, "she had a love affair which ended with the young man's death; and then she

"Not of course at all!" replied Francie, who used a particularly expensive essence of gillyflower herself.

"I can't think what we are about," said Aunt Juley, raising her hands, "talking of such things!"

A sound was heard over by the far door. Timothy had reentered the back drawingroom. "I've come for my

"Don't let's have anything of that sort in the family," he said. "All this enlistin's bad enough. The country's

breakin' up; I don't know what we're comin' to." He shook a thick finger at the room: "Too many women

So saying, he grasped the map firmly with both hands, and went out as if afraid of being answered.

The seven women whom he had addressed broke into a subdued murmur, out of which emerged Francie's,

"Really, the Forsytes!" and Aunt Juley's: "He must have his feet in mustard and hot water tonight, Hester;

That evening, when she and Hester were sitting alone after dinner, she dropped a stitch in her crochet, and

"Hester, I can't think where I've heard that dear Soames wants Irene to come back to him again. Who was it

told us that George had made a funny drawing of him with the words, 'He won't be happy till he gets it'?"

"Eustace," answered Aunt Hester from behind The Times; "he had it in his pocket, but he wouldn't show it

Aunt Juley was silent, ruminating. The clock ticked, The Times crackled, the fire sent forth its rustling purr.

Two days after the dinner at James', Mr. Polteed provided Soames with food for thought.

"A gentleman," he said, consulting the key concealed in his left hand, "47 as we say, has been paying marked

attention to 17 during the last month in Paris. But at present there seems to have been nothing very

conclusive. The meetings have all been in public places, without concealmentrestaurants, the Opera, the

Comique, the Louvre, Luxembourg Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and so forth. She has not yet been traced to

his rooms, nor vice versa. They went to Fontainebleaubut nothing of value. In short, the situation is

"Christian namean odd oneJolyon," continued Mr. Polteed. "We know his address in Paris and his

Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his secret made him all the more reticent.

"Um!" said Mr. Polteed, "she says: '47 left for England today. Address on his baggage: Robin Hill. Parted

from 17 in Louvre Gallery at 3.30; nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay and continue observation of

17. You will deal with 47 in England if you think desirable, no doubt.'" And Mr. Polteed lifted an

unprofessional glance on Soames, as though he might be storing material for a book on human nature after he

had gone out of business. "Very intelligent woman, 19, and a wonderful makeup. Not cheap, but earns her

money well. There's no suspicion of being shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive people

are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything definite to go on. I should rather advise lettingup on 17,

and keeping an eye on 47. We can't get at correspondence without great risk. I hardly advise that at this stage.

But you can tell your client that it's looking up very well." And again his narrowed eyes gleamed at his

"No," said Soames suddenly, "I prefer that you should keep the watch going discreetly in Paris, and not

"I'll read you what she says," said Mr. Polteed, unlocking a bureau drawer and taking out a file of papers;

"she sums it up somewhere confidentially. Yes, here it is! ' 17 very attractiveconclude 47, longer in the

tooth' (slang for age, you know)'distinctly gonewaiting his time17 perhaps holding off for terms,

impossible to say without knowing more. But inclined to think on the wholedoesn't know her

"Well," murmured Mr. Polteed with a smile, showing many white teeth, "an expression we use. In other

words, it's not likely to be a weekend businessthey'll come together seriously or not at all."

He walked into the Green Park that he might cross to Victoria Station and take the Underground into the City.

For so late in January it was warm; sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the frosty grassan illumined

Little spidersand great spiders! And the greatest spinner of all, his own tenacity, for ever wrapping its

cocoon of threads round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene for? Was it really as

Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking compassion on her loneliness, as he would call itsentimental

radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as Polteed hinted! Soames stood still. It could not be!

The fellow was seven years older than himself, no better looking! No richer! What attraction had he?

'Besides, he's come back,' he thought; 'that doesn't lookI'll go and see him!' and, taking out a card, he

"If you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, I shall be at the Connoisseurs any day between 5.30

and 6, or I could come to the Hotch Potch if you prefer it. I want to see you. S. F."

He walked up St. James's Street and confided it to the porter at the Hotch Potch.

"Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he comes in," he said, and took one of the new motor cabs into the

Jolyon received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face towards the Connoisseurs. What did

Soames want now? Had he got wind of Paris? And stepping across St. James's Street, he determined to make

no secret of his visit. 'But it won't do,' he thought, 'to let him know she's there, unless he knows already.' In

this complicated state of mind he was conducted to where Soames was drinking tea in a small baywindow.

The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were lighted; the two cousins sat waiting on each

"When I saw you last," he said, "I was in two minds. We talked, and you expressed your opinion. I don't wish

to reopen that discussion. I only wanted to say this: My position with her is extremely difficult. I don't want

you to go using your influence against me. What happened is a very long time ago. I'm going to ask her to let

"The idea was new to her then; it came as a shock. But the more she thinks of it, the more she must see that

"That's not my impression of her state of mind," said Jolyon with particular calm. "And, forgive my saying,

He saw his cousin's pale face grow palerhe had used, without knowing it, Irene's own words.

"Thanks," muttered Soames, "but I see things perhaps more plainly than you think. I only want to be sure that

"I don't know what makes you think I have any influence," said Jolyon; "but if I have I'm bound to use it in

the direction of what I think is her happiness. I am what they call a 'feminist,' I believe."

"Feminist!" repeated Soames, as if seeking to gain time. "Does that mean that you're against me?"

"Bluntly," said Jolyon, "I'm against any woman living with any man whom she definitely dislikes. It appears

"Not so far as I know," said Jolyon, conscious of the intent watchfulness in Soames' face.

"Well, that's all I had to say. Anyone who comes between man and wife, you know, incurs heavy

"Goodbye," he said, and, without offering to shake hands, moved away, leaving Soames staring after him. '

We Forsytes,' thought Jolyon, hailing a cab, 'are very civilised. With simpler folk that might have come to a

row. If it weren't for my boy going to the war....' The war! A gust of his old doubt swept over him. A precious

war! Domination of peoples or of women! Attempts to master and possess those who did not want you! The

negation of gentle decency! Possession, vested rights; and anyone 'agin' 'em outcast! 'Thank Heaven!' he

thought, 'I always felt "agin" 'em, anyway!' Yes! Even before his first disastrous marriage he could remember

fuming over the bludgeoning of Ireland, or the matrimonial suits of women trying to be free of men they

loathed. Parsons would have it that freedom of soul and body were quite different things! Pernicious doctrine!

Body and soul could not thus be separated. Free will was the strength of any tie, and not its weakness. 'I

ought to have told Soames,' he thought, 'that I think him comic. Ah! but he's tragic, too!' Was there anything,

indeed, more tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own possessive instinct, who couldn't see the sky

for it, or even enter fully into what another person felt! 'I must write and warn her,' he thought; 'he's going to

have another try.' And all the way home to Robin Hill he rebelled at the strength of that duty to his son which

But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing achea jealous ache, as if it had been

revealed to him that this fellow held precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of resistance to his

way out. 'Does that mean that you're against me?' he had got nothing out of that disingenuous question.

Feminist! Phrasey fellow! 'I mustn't rush things,' he thought. 'I have some breathing space; he's not going

back to Paris, unless he was lying. I'll let the spring come!' Though how the spring could serve him, save by

adding to his ache, he could not tell. And gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from pool

to pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought: 'Nothing seems any goodnothing seems worth while.

He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark street below a churchpassing, turning her

neck so that he caught the gleam of her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark hat, which had gold

spangles on it and a veil hanging down behind. He opened his eyesso vividly he had seen her! A woman

Imogen's frocks for her first season exercised the judgment of her mother and the purse of her grandfather all

through the month of March. With Forsyte tenacity Winifred quested for perfection. It took her mind off the

slowly approaching rite which would give her a freedom but doubtfully desired; took her mind, too, off her

boy and his fast approaching departure for a war from which the news remained disquieting. Like bees busy

on summer flowers, or bright gadflies hovering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms, she and her 'little

daughter,' tall nearly as herself and with a bust measurement not far inferior, hovered in the shops of Regent

Street, the establishments of Hanover Square and of Bond Street, lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics.

Dozens of young women of striking deportment and peculiar gait paraded before Winifred and Imogen,

draped in 'creations.' The models'Very new, modom; quite the latest thing' which those two reluctantly

turned down, would have filled a museum; the models which they were obliged to have nearly emptied

James' bank. It was no good doing things by halves, Winifred felt, in view of the need for making this first

and sole untarnished season a conspicuous success. Their patience in trying the patience of those impersonal

creatures who swam about before them could alone have been displayed by such as were moved by faith. It

was for Winifred a long prostration before her dear goddess Fashion, fervent as a Catholic might make before

the Virgin; for Imogen an experience by no means too unpleasantshe often looked so nice, and flattery was

On the afternoon of the 20th of March, having, as it were, gutted Skywards, they had sought refreshment over

the way at Caramel and Baker's, and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with cream, turned homewards

through Berkeley Square of an evening touched with spring. Opening the doorfreshly painted a light

olivegreen; nothing neglected that year to give Imogen a good sendoff Winifred passed towards the

silver basket to see if anyone had called, and suddenly her nostrils twitched. What was that scent?

Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library, and stood absorbed. Rather sharply, because of the queer

Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. Winifred heard the door of her room slammed to, and drew a long

savouring breath. Was it spring tickling her senseswhipping up nostalgia for her 'clown,' against all

wisdom and outraged virtue? A male scent! A faint reek of cigars and lavenderwater not smelt since that

early autumn night six months ago, when she had called him 'the limit.' Whence came it, or was it ghost of

scentsheer emanation from memory? She looked round her. Nothingnot a thing, no tiniest disturbance

of her hall, nor of the diningroom. A little daydream of a scentillusory, saddening, silly! In the silver

basket were new cards, two with 'Mr. and Mrs. Polegate Thom,' and one with 'Mr. Polegate Thom' thereon;

she sniffed them, but they smelled severe. 'I must be tired,' she thought, 'I'll go and lie down.' Upstairs the

drawingroom was darkened, waiting for some hand to give it evening light; and she passed on up to her

bedroom. This, too, was halfcurtained and dim, for it was six o'clock. Winifred threw off her coatthat

scent again!then stood, as if shot, transfixed against the bedrail. Something dark had risen from the sofa

Clutching the bedrail, Winifred reached up and turned the switch of the light hanging above her

dressingtable. He appeared just on the rim of the light's circumference, emblazoned from the absence of his

watchchain down to boots neat and sooty brown, butyes! split at the toecap. His chest and face were

shadowy. Surely he was thinor was it a trick of the light? He advanced, lighted now from toecap to the

top of his dark headsurely a little grizzled! His complexion had darkened, sallowed; his black moustache

had lost boldness, become sardonic; there were lines which she did not know about his face. There was no pin

in his tie. His suitah!she knew thatbut how unpressed, unglossy! She stared again at the toecap of

his boot. Something big and relentless had been 'at him,' had turned and twisted, raked and scraped him. And

Winifred's bosom began to heave. The nostalgia for her husband which had rushed up with that scent was

struggling with a deeper jealousy than any she had felt yet. There he wasa dark, and as if harried, shadow

of his sleek and brazen self! What force had done this to himsqueezed him like an orange to its dry rind!

"I'm back," he said again. "I've had a beastly time. By God! I came steerage. I've got nothing but what I stand

"And who has the rest?" cried Winifred, suddenly alive. "How dared you come? You knew it was just for

They held each to the rail of the big bed where they had spent so many years of nights together. Many times,

yesmany times she had wanted him back. But now that he had come she was filled with this cold and

deadly resentment. He put his hand up to his moustache; but did not frizz and twist it in the old familiar way,

"If you mention her," cried Winifred, "I go straight out to Park Lane and I don't come back."

Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic that it moved her. He shut his eyes. It was as if he had

"You can have a room for the night," she said; "your things are still here. Only Imogen is at home."

He leaned back against the bedrail. " Well, it's in your hands," and his own made a writhing movement.

"I've been through it. You needn't hit too hardit isn't worth while. I've been frightened; I've been

'What am I to do with him?' she thought. 'What in God's name am I to do with him?'

She gave him one from a little box she kept up there for when she couldn't sleep at night, and lighted it. With

"Go and have a hot bath. I'll put some clothes out for you in the dressingroom. We can talk later."

He nodded, and fixed his eyes on herthey looked halfdead, or was it that the folds in the lids had become

'He's not the same,' she thought. He would never be quite the same again! But what would he be?

"All right!" he said, and went towards the door. He even moved differently, like a man who has lost illusion

When he was gone, and she heard the water in the bath running, she put out a complete set of garments on the

bed in his dressingroom, then went downstairs and fetched up the biscuit box and whisky. Putting on her

coat again, and listening a moment at the bathroom door, she went down and out. In the street she hesitated.

Past seven o'clock! Would Soames be at his Club or at Park Lane? She turned towards the latter. Back!

Soames had always feared itshe had sometimes hoped it.... Back! So like himclown that he waswith

this: 'Here we are again!' to make fools of them allof the Law, of Soames, of herself!

Yet to have done with the Law, not to have that murky cloud hanging over her and the children! What a

relief! Ah! but how to accept his return? That 'woman' had ravaged him, taken from him passion such as he

had never bestowed on herself, such as she had not thought him capable of. There was the sting! That selfish,

blatant 'clown' of hers, whom she herself had never really stirred, had been swept and ungarnished by another

woman! Insulting! Too insulting! Not right, not decent to take him back! And yet she had asked for him; the

Law perhaps would make her now! He was as much her husband as evershe had put herself out of court!

And all he wanted, no doubt, was moneyto keep him in cigars and lavenderwater! That scent! 'After all,

I'm not old,' she thought, 'not old yet!' But that woman who had reduced him to those words: 'I've been

through it. I've been frightened frightened, Freddie!' She neared her father's house, driven this way and

that, while all the time the Forsyte undertow was drawing her to deep conclusion that after all he was her

Her brother was dressing. She found him before a mirror, tying a black bow with an air of despising its ends.

"Hoist," muttered Soames, "with our own petard. Why the deuce didn't you let me try cruelty? I always knew

"Ah!" he said, "of course! On his beam ends. Soit begins again! This'll about finish father."

And he brooded, with fingers hooked into his blue silk braces. "There ought to be some way in law," he

"No," cried Winifred, "I won't be made a fool of again; I'd sooner put up with him."

The two stared at each other. Their hearts were full of feeling, but they could give it no expressionForsytes

"In the bath," and Winifred gave a little bitter laugh. "The only thing he's brought back is lavenderwater."

"Terms! It'll always be the same. When he recoverscards and betting, drink and ....!" She was silent,

remembering the look on her husband's face. The burnt childthe burnt child. Perhaps...!

Soames took his waistcoat from a chair and put it on, he took his coat and got into it, he scented his

handkerchief with eaude Cologne, threaded his watchchain, and said: "We haven't any luck."

And in the midst of her own trouble Winifred was sorry for him, as if in that little saying he had revealed

"She'll be with father in their room. Come down quietly to the study. I'll get her."

Winifred stole down to the little dark study, chiefly remarkable for a Canaletto too doubtful to be placed

elsewhere, and a fine collection of Law Reports unopened for many years. Here she stood, with her back to

marooncoloured curtains closedrawn, staring at the empty grate, till her mother came in followed by

"Oh! my poor dear!" said Emily: "How miserable you look in here! This is too bad of him, really!"

As a family they had so guarded themselves from the expression of all unfashionable emotion that it was

impossible to go up and give her daughter a good hug. But there was comfort in her cushioned voice, and her

still dimpled shoulders under some rare black lace. Summoning pride and the desire not to distress her

"I don't see," said Emily, looking at Soames, "why Winifred shouldn't tell him that she'll prosecute him if he

doesn't keep off the premises. He took her pearls; and if he's not brought them back, that's quite enough."

Winifred smiled. They would all plunge about with suggestions of this and that, but she knew already what

she would be doing, and that wasnothing. The feeling that, after all, she had won a sort of victory, retained

her property, was every moment gaining ground in her. No! if she wanted to punish him, she could do it at

" Well," said Emily, "come into the diningroom comfortablyyou must stay and have dinner with us. Leave

it to me to tell your father." And, as Winifred moved towards the door, she turned out the light. Not till then

There, attracted by light from a room never lighted, James was standing with his duncoloured camelhair

shawl folded about him, so that his arms were not free and his silvered head looked cut off from his

fashionably trousered legs as if by an expanse of desert. He stood, inimitably storklike, with an expression

The moment found Emily without reply. It was Winifred who went up to him, and, laying one hand on each

They all three expected something serious to happen, and were glad she had kept that grip of his arms, but

they did not know the depth of root in that shadowy old Forsyte. Something wry occurred about his shaven

mouth and chin, something scratchy between those long silvery whiskers. Then he said with a sort of dignity:

"Ah!" said James. "Here, take this thing off, I'm hot." They unwound the shawl. He turned, and walked firmly

"I don't want any soup," he said to Warmson, and sat down in his chair. They all sat down too, Winifred still

in her hat, while Warmson laid the fourth place. When he left the room, James said: "What's he brought

James concentrated his eyes on his own image in a tablespoon. "Divorce!" he muttered; "rubbish! What was I

about? I ought to have paid him an allowance to stay out of England. Soames you go and propose it to him."

It seemed so right and simple a suggestion that even Winifred was surprised when she said: "No, I'll keep him

"Out there!" said James elliptically, "who knows what cutthroats! You look for his revolver! Don't go to bed

without. You ought to have Warmson to sleep in the house. I'll see him myself tomorrow."

They were touched by this declaration, and Emily said comfortably: "That's right, James, we won't have any

When, directly after dinner, Winifred went over to kiss her father goodnight, he looked up with eyes so full

"It's all right, Daddy, dear; don't worry. I shan't need anyone he's quite bland. I shall only be upset if you

James repeated the words, "Bless you!" as if he did not quite know what they meant, and his eyes followed

Dartie was lying on the bed in his dressingroom, fully redressed in a blue serge suit and pumps; his arms

Winifred remembered ridiculously the flowers in her windowboxes after a blazing summer day; the way

they lay, or rather stood parched, yet rested by the sun's retreat. It was as if a little dew had come already

He said apathetically: " I suppose you've been to Park Lane. How's the old man?"

"Understand, Monty," she said, "I will not have him worried. If you aren't going to behave yourself, you may

With mortification Winifred saw his dark sardonic face relaxed. 'Yes!' she thought, 'he cares for her, not for

It flashed through Winifred that here was the weapon she needed. He minded their knowing!

Winifred went up to the bed. "Look here, Monty! I don't want to hit you. I don't want to hurt you. I shan't

allude to anything. I'm not going to worry. What's the use?" She was silent a moment. "I can't stand any more,

though, and I won't! You'd better know. You've made me suffer. But I used to be fond of you. For the sake of

that...." She met the heavylidded gaze of his brown eyes with the downward stare of her greengrey eyes;

She sat there a long time before her glass, fingering her rings, thinking of this subdued dark man, almost a

stranger to her, on the bed in the other room; resolutely not 'worrying,' but gnawed by jealousy of what he had

Soames doggedly let the spring comeno easy task for one conscious that time was flying, his birds in the

bush no nearer the hand, no issue from the web anywhere visible. Mr. Polteed reported nothing, except that

his watch went oncosting a lot of money. Val and his cousin were gone to the war, whence came news

more favourable; Dartie was behaving himself so far; James had retained his health; business prospered

almost terriblythere was nothing to worry Soames except that he was 'held up,' could make no step in any

He did not exactly avoid Soho, for he could not afford to let them think that he had 'piped off,' as James

would have put ithe might want to 'pipe on' again at any minute. But he had to be so restrained and

cautious that he would often pass the door of the Restaurant Bretagne without going in, and wander out of the

purlieus of that region which always gave him the feeling of having been possessively irregular.

He wandered thus one May night into Regent Street and the most amazing crowd he had ever seen; a

shrieking, whistling, dancing, jostling, grotesque and formidably jovial crowd, with false noses and

mouthorgans, penny whistles and long feathers, every appanage of idiocy, as it seemed to him. Mafeking!

Of course, it had been relieved! Good! But was that an excuse? Who were these people, what were they,

where had they come from into the West End? His face was tickled, his ears whistled into. Girls cried: 'Keep

your hair on, stucco!' A youth so knocked off his tophat that he recovered it with difficulty. Crackers were

exploding beneath his nose, between his feet. He was bewildered, exasperated, offended. This stream of

people came from every quarter, as if impulse had unlocked floodgates, let flow waters of whose existence

he had heard, perhaps, but believed in never. This, then, was the populace, the innumerable living negation of

gentility and Forsyteism. This wasegad!Democracy! It stank, yelled, was hideous! In the East End, or

even Soho, perhapsbut here in Regent Street, in Piccadilly! What were, the police about! In 1900, Soames,

with his Forsyte thousands, had never seen the cauldron with the lid off; and now looking into it, could hardly

believe his scorching eyes. The whole thing was unspeakable! These people had no restraint, they seemed to

Nothing sacred to them! He shouldn't be surprised if they began to break windows. In Pall Mall, past those

august dwellings, to enter which people paid sixty pounds, this shrieking, whistling, dancing dervish of a

crowd was swarming. From the Club windows his own kind were looking out on them with regulated

amusement. They didn't realise! Why, this was seriousmight come to anything! The crowd was cheerful,

but some day they would come in different mood! He remembered there had been a mob in the late eighties,

when he was at Brighton; they had smashed things and made speeches. But more than dread, he felt a deep

surprise. They were hysterical it wasn't English! And all about the relief of a little town as big

asWatford, six thousand miles away. Restraint, reserve! Those qualities to him more dear almost than life,

those indispensable attributes of property and culture, where were they? It wasn't English! No, it wasn't

English! So Soames brooded, threading his way on. It was as if he had suddenly caught sight of someone

cutting the covenant 'for quiet possession' out of his legal documents; or of a monster lurking and stalking out

in the future, casting its shadow before. Their want of stolidity, their want of reverence! It was like

discovering that ninetenths of the people of England were foreigners. And if that were sothen, anything

At Hyde Park Corner he ran into George Forsyte, very sunburnt from racing, holding a false nose in his hand.

"Got this from one of these sportsmen," went on George, who had evidently been dining; "had to lay him

outfor trying to bash my hat. I say, one of these days we shall have to fight these chaps, they're getting so

damned cheekyall radicals and socialists. They want our goods. You tell Uncle James that, it'll make him

'In vino veritas,' thought Soames, but he only nodded, and passed on up Hamilton Place. There was but a

trickle of roysterers in Park Lane, not very noisy. And looking up at the houses he thought: 'After all, we're

the backbone of the country. They won't upset us easily. Possession's nine points of the law.'

But, as he closed the door of his father's house behind him, all that queer outlandish nightmare in the streets

passed out of his mind almost as completely as if, having dreamed it, he had awakened in the warm clean

A wife! Somebody to talk things over with. One had a right! Damn it! One had a right!

Soames had travelled little. Aged nineteen he had made the 'petty tour' with his father, mother, and

WinifredBrussels, the Rhine, Switzerland, and home by way of Paris. Aged twentyseven, just when he

began to take interest in pictures, he had spent five hot weeks in Italy, looking into the Renaissance not so

much in it as he had been led to expectand a fortnight in Paris on his way back, looking into himself, as

became a Forsyte surrounded by people so strongly selfcentred and 'foreign' as the French. His knowledge

of their language being derived from his public school, he did not understand them when they spoke. Silence

he had found better for all parties; one did not make a fool of oneself. He had disliked the look of the men's

clothes, the closedin cabs, the theatres which looked like beehives, the Galleries which smelled of

beeswax. He was too cautious and too shy to explore that side of Paris supposed by Forsytes to constitute its

attraction under the rose; and as for a collector's bargainnot one to be had! As Nicholas might have put

itthey were a grasping lot. He had come back uneasy, saying Paris was overrated.

When, therefore, in June of 1900 he went to Paris, it was but his third attempt on the centre of civilisation.

This time, however, the mountain was going to Mahomet; for he felt by now more deeply civilised than Paris,

and perhaps he really was. Moreover, he had a definite objective. This was no mere genuflexion to a shrine of

taste and immorality, but the prosecution of his own legitimate affairs. He went, indeed, because things were

getting past a joke. The watch went on and on, andnothingnothing! Jolyon had never returned to Paris,

and no one else was 'suspect!' Busy with new and very confidential matters, Soames was realising more than

ever how essential reputation is to a solicitor. But at night and in his leisure moments he was ravaged by the

thought that time was always flying and money flowing in, and his own future as much 'in irons' as ever.

Since Mafeking night he had become aware that a 'young fool of a doctor' was hanging round Annette. Twice

Nothing annoyed Soames so much as cheerfulnessan indecent, extravagant sort of quality, which had no

relation to facts. The mixture of his desires and hopes was, in a word, becoming torture; and lately the

thought had come to him that perhaps Irene knew she was being shadowed: It was this which finally decided

him to go and see for himself; to go and once more try to break down her repugnance, her refusal to make her

own and his path comparatively smooth once more. If he failed againwell, he would see what she did with

He went to an hotel in the Rue Caumartin, highly recommended to Forsytes, where practically nobody spoke

French. He had formed no plan. He did not want to startle her; yet must contrive that she had no chance to

Paris had an air of gaiety, a sparkle over its starshape which almost annoyed Soames. He stepped gravely,

his nose lifted a little sideways in real curiosity. He desired now to understand things French. Was not

Annette French? There was much to be got out of his visit, if he could only get it. In this laudable mood and

the Place de la Concorde he was nearly run down three times. He came on the 'Cours la Reine,' where Irene's

hotel was situated, almost too suddenly, for he had not yet fixed on his procedure. Crossing over to the river

side, he noted the building, white and cheerfullooking, with green sunblinds, seen through a screen of

planetree leaves. And, conscious that it would be far better to meet her casually in some open place than to

risk a call, he sat down on a bench whence he could watch the entrance. It was not quite eleven o'clock, and

improbable that she had yet gone out. Some pigeons were strutting and preening their feathers in the pools of

sunlight between the shadows of the planetrees. A workman in a blue blouse passed, and threw them

crumbs from the paper which contained his dinner. A 'bonne' coiffed with ribbon shepherded two little girls

with pigtails and frilled drawers. A cab meandered by, whose cocher wore a blue coat and a blackglazed

hat. To Soames a kind of affectation seemed to cling about it all, a sort of picturesqueness which was out of

date. A theatrical people, the French! He lit one of his rare cigarettes, with a sense of injury that Fate should

be casting his life into out landish waters. He shouldn't wonder if Irene quite enjoyed this foreign life; she

had never been properly Englisheven to look at! And he began considering which of those windows could

be hers under the green sunblinds. How could he word what he had come to say so that it might pierce the

defence of her proud obstinacy? He threw the fagend of his cigarette at a pigeon, with the thought: ' I can't

stay here for ever twiddling my thumbs. Better give it up and call on her in the late afternoon.' But he still sat

on, heard twelve strike, and then halfpast. 'I'll wait till one,' he thought, 'while I'm about it.' But just then he

started up, and shrinkingly sat down again. A woman had come out in a cream coloured frock, and was

moving away under a fawncoloured parasol. Irene herself! He waited till she was too far away to recognise

him, then set out after her. She was strolling as though she had no particular objective; moving, if he

remembered rightly, toward the Bois de Boulogne. For half an hour at least he kept his distance on the far

side of the way till she had passed into the Bois itself. Was she going to meet someone after all? Some

confounded Frenchmanone of those 'Bel Ami' chaps, perhaps, who had nothing to do but hang about

womenfor he had read that book with difficulty and a sort of disgusted fascination. He followed doggedly

along a shady alley, losing sight of her now and then when the path curved. And it came back to him how,

long ago, one night in Hyde Park he had slid and sneaked from tree to tree, from seat to seat, hunting blindly,

ridiculously, in burning jealousy for her and young Bosinney. The path bent sharply, and, hurrying, he came

on her sitting in front of a small fountaina little greenbronze Niobe veiled in hair to her slender hips,

gazing at the pool she had wept: He came on her so suddenly that he was past before he could turn and take

off his hat. She did not start up. She had always had great selfcommandit was one of the things he most

admired in her, one of his greatest grievances against her, because he had never been able to tell what she was

thinking. Had she realised that he was following? Her selfpossession made him angry; and, disdaining to

"A little lonely." As he spoke, a lady, strolling by, paused to look at the fountain and passed on.

"No," she said, prodding the ground with her parasol, "never lonely. One has always one's shadow."

"Well, it's your own fault. You can be free of it at any moment. Irene, come back to me, and be free."

"Don't!" cried Soames, stamping his foot; "it's inhuman. Listen! Is there any condition I can make which will

bring you back to me? If I promise you a separate houseand just a visit now and then?"

"Don't make a scene!" he said sharply. And they both stood motionless, staring at the little Niobe, whose

"That's your last word, then," muttered Soames, clenching his hands; "you condemn us both."

"Stop!" he said, "and listen to me a moment. You gave me a sacred vowyou came to me without a penny.

You had all I could give you. You broke that vow without cause, you made me a byword; you refused me a

child; you've left me in prison; youyou still move me so that I want youI want you. Well, what do you

"God made me as I am," she said; "wicked if you likebut not so wicked that I'll give myself again to a man

The sunlight gleamed on her hair as she moved away, and seemed to lay a caress all down her clinging

Soames could neither speak nor move. That word 'hate'so extreme, so primitivemade all the Forsyte in

him tremble. With a deep imprecation he strode away from where she had vanished, and ran almost into the

'Well,' he thought, 'I need have no consideration for her now; she has not a grain of it for me. I'll show her

But on the way home to his hotel, he was forced to the conclusion that he did not know what he meant. One

could not make scenes in public, and short of scenes in public what was there he could do? He almost cursed

his own thinskinnedness. She might deserve no consideration; but healas! deserved some at his own

hands. And sitting lunchless in the hall of his hotel, with tourists passing every moment, Baedeker in hand, he

was visited by black dejection. In irons! His whole life, with every natural instinct and every decent yearning

gagged and fettered, and all because Fate had driven him seventeen years ago to set his heart upon this

womanso utterly, that even now he had no real heart to set on any other! Cursed was the day he had met

her, and his eyes for seeing in her anything but the cruel Venus she was! And yet, still seeing her with the

sunlight on the clinging China crepe of her gown, he uttered a little groan, so that a tourist who was passing,

Later, in front of a cafe near the Opera, over a glass of cold tea with lemon and a straw in it, he took the

malicious resolution to go and dine at her hotel. If she were there, he would speak to her; if she were not, he

"Your idyll with that fellow Jolyon Forsyte is known to me at all events. If you pursue it, understand that I

He sealed this note but did not address it, refusing to write the maiden name which she had impudently

resumed, or to put the word Forsyte on the envelope lest she should tear it up unread. Then he went out, and

made his way through the glowing streets, abandoned to evening pleasureseekers. Entering her hotel, he

took his seat in a far corner of the diningroom whence he could see all entrances and exits. She was not

there. He ate little, quickly, watchfully. She did not come. He lingered in the lounge over his coffee, drank

two liqueurs of brandy. But still she did not come. He went over to the keyboard and examined the names.

Number twelve, on the first floor! And he determined to take the note up himself. He mounted redcarpeted

stairs, past a little salon; eighttentwelve! Should he knock, push the note under, or....? He looked furtively

round and turned the handle. The door opened, but into a little space leading to another door; he knocked on

thatno answer. The door was locked. It fitted very closely to the floor; the note would not go under. He

thrust it back into his pocket, and stood a moment listening. He felt somehow certain that she was not there.

And suddenly he came away, passing the little salon down the stairs. He stopped at the bureau and said:

"Madame Heron left today, Monsieursuddenly, about three o'clock. There was illness in her family."

Soames put the note back into his pocket and went out. He hailed an open horsecab which was passing.

The man, who, obviously, did not understand, smiled, and waved his whip. And Soames was borne along in

that little yellowwheeled Victoria all over starshaped Paris, with here and there a pause, and the question,

"C'est par ici, Monsieur?" "No, go on," till the man gave it up in despair, and the yellowwheeled chariot

continued to roll between the tall, flatfronted shuttered houses and plane tree avenuesa little Flying

Soames returned to England the following day, and on the third morning received a visit from Mr. Polteed,

who wore a flower and carried a brown billycock hat. Soames motioned him to a seat.

"The news from the war is not so bad, is it?" said Mr. Polteed. "I hope I see you well, sir."

Mr. Polteed leaned forward, smiled, opened his hand, looked into it, and said softly:

"Nineteen reports quite suddenly what I think we shall be justified in calling conclusive evidence," and Mr.

"On the 10th instant, after witnessing an interview between 17 and a party, earlier in the day, 19 can swear to

having seen him coming out of her bedroom in the hotel about ten o'clock in the evening. With a little care in

the giving of the evidence that will be enough, especially as 17 has left Parisno doubt with the party in

question. In fact, they both slipped off, and we haven't got on to them again, yet; but we shallwe shall.

She's worked hard under very difficult circumstances, and I'm glad she's brought it off at last." Mr. Polteed

took out a cigarette, tapped its end against the table, looked at Soames, and put it back. The expression on his

"That we don't know. She'll swear to the fact, and she's got his appearance pat."

"'Middleaged, medium height, blue dittoes in afternoon, evening dress at night, pale, dark hair, small dark

Soames rose and went to the window. He stood there in sardonic fury. Congenital idiotspidery congenital

idiot! Seven months at fifteen pounds a weekto be tracked down as his own wife's lover! Guilty look! He

"I doubt if that's quite good enough," he said, drawling the words, "with no name or address. I think you may

let that lady have a rest, and take up our friend 47 at this end." Whether Polteed had spotted him he could not

tell; but he had a mental vision of him in the midst of his cronies dissolved in inextinguishable laughter.

Mr. Polteed said in a tone of urgency, almost of pathos: "I assure you we have put it through sometimes on

less than that. It's Paris, you know. Attractive woman living alone. Why not risk it, sir? We might screw it up

Soames had sudden insight. The fellow's professional zeal was stirred: 'Greatest triumph of my career; got a

man his divorce through a visit to his own wife's bedroom! Something to talk of there, when I retire!' And for

one wild moment he thought: 'Why not?' After all, hundreds of men of medium height had small feet and a

"Never mind that. Please watch 47, and take care not to find a mare's nest. Goodmorning!"

And Soames was alone again. The spidery, dirty, ridiculous business! Laying his arms on the table, he leaned

his forehead on them. Full ten minutes he rested thus, till a managing clerk roused him with the draft

prospectus of a new issue of shares, very desirable, in Manifold and Topping's. That afternoon he left work

early and made his way to the Restaurant Bretagne. Only Madame Lamotte was in. Would Monsieur have tea

When they were seated at right angles to each other in the little room, he said abruptly

The quick lift of her clear brown eyes told him that she had long expected such words.

"I have to ask you something first: That young doctorwhat's his name? Is there anything between him and

Her whole personality had become, as it were, like jetclearcut, black, hard, shining.

"Annette is young," she said; "so is monsieur le docteur. Between young people things move quickly; but

"But definiteno, indeed! The young man is veree nice, butwhat would you? There is no money at

"I am a married man," he said, "living apart from my wife for many years. I am seeking to divorce her."

Madame Lamotte put down her cup. Indeed! What tragic things there were! The entire absence of sentiment

"I am a rich man," he added, fully conscious that the remark was not in good taste. "It is useless to say more

Madame's eyes, so open that the whites showed above them, looked at him very straight.

"Ah! camais nous avons le temps!" was all she said. "Another little cup?" Soames refused, and, taking his

He had got that off his mind; she would not let Annette commit herself with that cheerful young ass until....!

But what chance of his ever being able to say: 'I'm free.' What chance? The future had lost all semblance of

reality. He felt like a fly, entangled in cobweb filaments, watching the desirable freedom of the air with pitiful

He was short of exercise, and wandered on to Kensington Gardens, and down Queen's Gate towards Chelsea.

Perhaps she had gone back to her flat. That at all events he could find out. For since that last and most

ignominious repulse his wounded selfrespect had taken refuge again in the feeling that she must have a

lover. He arrived before the little Mansions at the dinnerhour. No need to enquire! A greyhaired lady was

watering the flowerboxes in her window. It was evidently let. And he walked slowly past again, along the

riveran evening of clear, quiet beauty, all harmony and comfort, except within his heart.

On the afternoon that Soames crossed to France a cablegram was received by Jolyon at Robin Hill:

It reached a household already agitated by the imminent departure of June, whose berth was booked for the

following day. She was, indeed, in the act of confiding Eric Cobbley and his family to her father's care when

The resolution to become a Red Cross nurse, taken under stimulus of Jolly's enlistment, had been loyally

fulfilled with the irritation and regret which all Forsytes feel at what curtails their individual liberties.

Enthusiastic at first about the 'wonderfulness' of the work, she had begun after a month to feel that she could

train herself so much better than others could train her. And if Holly had not insisted on following her

example, and being trained too, she must inevitably have 'cried off.' The departure of Jolly and Val with their

troop in April had further stiffened her failing resolve. But now, on the point of departure, the thought of

leaving Eric Cobbley, with a wife and two children, adrift in the cold waters of an unappreciative world

weighed on her so that she was still in danger of backing out. The reading of that cablegram, with its

disquieting reality, clinched the matter. She saw herself already nursing Jollyfor of course they would let

her nurse her own brother! Jolyonever wide and doubtfulhad no such hope. Poor June!

Could any Forsyte of her generation grasp how rude and brutal life was? Ever since he knew of his boy's

arrival at Cape Town the thought of him had been a kind of recurrent sickness in Jolyon. He could not get

reconciled to the feeling that Jolly was in danger all the time. The cablegram, grave though it was, was almost

a relief. He was now safe from bullets, anyway. And yetthis enteric was a virulent disease! The Times was

full of deaths therefrom. Why could he not be lying out there in that upcountry hospital, and his boy safe at

home? The unForsytean selfsacrifice of his three children, indeed, had quite bewildered Jolyon. He would

eagerly change places with Jolly, because he loved his boy; but no such personal motive was influencing

Late that afternoon Holly came out to him under the old oaktree. She had grown up very much during these

last months of hospital training away from home. And, seeing her approach, he thought: 'She has more sense

than June, child though she is; more wisdom. Thank God she isn't going out.' She had seated herself in the

swing, very silent and still. 'She feels this,' thought Jolyon, 'as much as I' and, seeing her eyes fixed on him,

he said: "Don't take it to heart too much, my child. If he weren't ill, he might be in much greater danger."

"I want to tell you something, Dad. It was through me that Jolly enlisted and went out."

"When you were away in Paris, Val Dartie and I fell in love. We used to ride in Richmond Park; we got

engaged. Jolly found it out, and thought he ought to stop it; so he dared Val to enlist. It was all my fault, Dad;

and I want to go out too. Because if anything happens to either of them I should feel awful. Besides, I'm just

Jolyon gazed at her in a stupefaction that was tinged with irony. So this was the answer to the riddle he had

been asking himself; and his three children were Forsytes after all. Surely Holly might have told him all this

before! But he smothered the sarcastic sayings on his lips. Tenderness to the young was perhaps the most

sacred article of his belief. He had got, no doubt, what he deserved. Engaged! So this was why he had so lost

touch with her! And to young Val Dartienephew of Soamesin the other camp! It was all terribly

"Yes; she says she'll get me into her cabin somehow. It's a single cabin; but one of us could sleep on the floor.

'Consent?' thought Jolyon. 'Rather late in the day to ask for that!' But again he checked himself.

"June knows some people that she helped to go to Cape Town. If they won't let me nurse yet, I could stay

'That means the worst,' thought Jolyon. If he had ever doubted his creed of tolerance he did so then.

"I'm not friendly with Val's family," he said, "and I don't know Val, but Jolly didn't like him."

"That settles it," said Jolyon dryly, then catching the expression on her face, he kissed her, with the thought:

'Is anything more pathetic than the faith of the young?' Unless he actually forbade her going it was obvious

that he must make the best of it, so he went up to town with June. Whether due to her persistence, or the fact

that the official they saw was an old school friend of Jolyon's, they obtained permission for Holly to share the

single cabin. He took them to Surbiton station the following evening, and they duly slid away from him,

provided with money, invalid foods, and those letters of credit without which Forsytes do not travel.

He drove back to Robin Hill under a brilliant sky to his late dinner, served with an added care by servants

trying to show him that they sympathised, eaten with an added scrupulousness to show them that he

appreciated their sympathy. But it was a real relief to get to his cigar on the terrace of

flagstonescunningly chosen by young Bosinney for shape and colourwith night closing in around him,

so beautiful a night, hardly whispering in the trees, and smelling so sweet that it made him ache. The grass

was drenched with dew, and he kept to those flagstones, up and down, till presently it began to seem to him

that he was one of three, not wheeling, but turning right about at each end, so that his father was always

nearest to the house, and his son always nearest to the terrace edge. Each had an arm lightly within his arm;

he dared not lift his hand to his cigar lest he should disturb them, and it burned away, dripping ash on him, till

it dropped from his lips, at last, which were getting hot. They left him then, and his arms felt chilly. Three

He stood still, counting the soundsa carriage passing on the highroad, a distant train, the dog at Gage's

farm, the whispering trees, the groom playing on his penny whistle. A multitude of stars up therebright and

silent, so far off! No moon as yet! Just enough light to show him the dark flags and swords of the iris flowers

along the terrace edgehis favourite flower that had the night's own colour on its curving crumpled petals.

He turned round to the house. Big, unlighted, not a soul beside himself to live in all that part of it. Stark

loneliness! He could not go on living here alone. And yet, so long as there was beauty, why should a man feel

lonely? The answeras to some idiot's riddlewas: Because he did. The greater the beauty, the greater the

loneliness, for at the back of beauty was harmony, and at the back of harmony was union. Beauty could

not comfort if the soul were out of it. The night, maddeningly lovely, with bloom of grapes on it in starshine,

and the breath of grass and honey coming from it, he could not enjoy, while she who was to him the life of

beauty, its embodiment and essence, was cut off from him, utterly cut off now, he felt, by honourable

He made a poor fist of sleeping, striving too hard after that resignation which Forsytes find difficult to reach,

bred to their own way and left so comfortably off by their fathers. But after dawn he dozed off, and soon was

He was on a stage with immensely high rich curtainshigh as the very starsstretching in a semicircle

from footlights to footlights. He himself was very small, a little black restless figure roaming up and down;

and the odd thing was that he was not altogether himself, but Soames as well, so that he was not only

experiencing but watching. This figure of himself and Soames was trying to find a way out through the

curtains, which, heavy and dark, kept him in. Several times he had crossed in front of them before he saw

with delight a sudden narrow rifta tall chink of beauty the colour of iris flowers, like a glimpse of Paradise,

remote, ineffable. Stepping quickly forward to pass into it, he found the curtains closing before him. Bitterly

disappointed he or was it Soames?moved on, and there was the chink again through the parted curtains,

which again closed too soon. This went on and on and he never got through till he woke with the word

"Irene" on his lips. The dream disturbed him badly, especially that identification of himself with Soames.

Next morning, finding it impossible to work, he spent hours riding Jolly's horse in search of fatigue. And on

the second day he made up his mind to move to London and see if he could not get permission to follow his

daughters to South Africa. He had just begun to pack the following morning when he received this letter:

"You will be surprised to see how near I am to you. Paris became impossibleand I have come here to be

within reach of your advice. I would so love to see you again. Since you left Paris I don't think I have met

anyone I could really talk to. Is all well with you and with your boy? No one knows, I think, that I am here at

Irene within three miles of him!and again in flight! He stood with a very queer smile on his lips. This was

About noon he set out on foot across Richmond Park, and as he went along, he thought: 'Richmond Park! By

Jove, it suits us Forsytes!' Not that Forsytes lived therenobody lived there save royalty, rangers, and the

deerbut in Richmond Park Nature was allowed to go so far and no further, putting up a brave show of

being natural, seeming to say: 'Look at my instinctsthey are almost passions, very nearly out of hand, but

not quite, of course; the very hub of possession is to possess oneself.' Yes! Richmond Park possessed itself,

even on that bright day of June, with arrowy cuckoos shifting the treepoints of their calls, and the wood

The Green Hotel, which Jolyon entered at one o'clock, stood nearly opposite that more famous hostelry, the

Crown and Sceptre; it was modest, highly respectable, never out of cold beef, gooseberry tart, and a dowager

In a room draped in chintz so slippery as to forbid all emotion, Irene was sitting on a piano stool covered with

crewel work, playing 'Hansel and Gretel' out of an old score. Above her on a wall, not yet Morrispapered,

was a print of the Queen on a pony, amongst deerhounds, Scotch. caps, and slain stags; beside her in a pot

on the windowsill was a white and rosy fuchsia. The Victorianism of the room almost talked; and in her

clinging frock Irene seemed to Jolyon like Venus emerging from the shell of the past century.

"If the proprietor had eyes," he said, "he would show you the door; you have broken through his decorations."

Thus lightly he smothered up an emotional moment. Having eaten cold beef, pickled walnut, gooseberry tart,

and drunk stonebottle gingerbeer, they walked into the Park, and light talk was succeeded by the silence

"No. I've been shadowed for a long time; one gets used to that. But then Soames came. By the little

She had spoken without raising her eyes, but she looked up now. Those dark eyes clinging to his said as no

For sheer emotional intensity had he everold as he waspassed through such a moment?

The words: 'Irene, I adore you!' almost escaped him. Then, with a clearness of which he would not have

believed mental vision capable, he saw Jolly lying with a white face turned to a white wall.

No miserable explanation to attempt! She had understood! And they walked on among the bracken,

kneehigh already, between the rabbitholes and the oaktrees, talking of Jolly. He left her two hours later at

'She knows of my feeling for her, then,' he thought. Of course! One could not keep knowledge of that from

Jolly was tired to death of dreams. They had left him now too wan and weak to dream again; left him to lie

torpid, faintly remembering faroff things; just able to turn his eyes and gaze through the window near his

cot at the trickle of river running by in the sands, at the straggling milkbush of the Karoo beyond. He knew

what the Karoo was now, even if he had not seen a Boer roll over like a rabbit, or heard the whine of flying

bullets. This pestilence had sneaked on him before he had smelled powder. A thirsty day and a rash drink, or

perhaps a tainted fruitwho knew? Not he, who had not even strength left to grudge the evil thing its

victoryjust enough to know that there were many lying here with him, that he was sore with frenzied

dreaming; just enough to watch that thread of river and be able to remember faintly those faraway things....

The sun was nearly down. It would be cooler soon. He would have liked to know the timeto feel his old

watch, so buttersmooth, to hear the repeater strike. It would have been friendly, homelike. He had not even

strength to remember that the old watch was last wound the day he began to lie here. The pulse of his brain

beat so feebly that faces which came and went, nurse's, doctor's, orderly's, were indistinguishable, just one

indifferent face; and the words spoken about him meant all the same thing, and that almost nothing. Those

things he used to do, though far and faint, were more distinctwalking past the foot of the old steps at

Harrow 'bill''Here, sir! Here, sir!'wrapping boots in the Westminster Gazette, greenish paper, shining

bootsgrandfather coming from somewhere darka smell of earththe mushroom house! Robin Hill!

Consciousness came again with noticing that the river had no water in itsomeone was speaking too. Want

anything? No. What could one want? Too weak to wantonly to hear his watch strike....

Holly! She wouldn't bowl properly. Oh! Pitch them up! Not sneaks!... 'Back her, Two and Bow!' He was

Two!... Consciousness came once more with a sense of the violet dusk outside, and a rising bloodred

crescent moon. His eyes rested on it fascinated; in the long minutes of brainnothingness it went moving up

"He's going, doctor!" Not pack boots again? Never? 'Mind your form, Two!' Don't cry! Go quietlyover the

A sealed letter in the handwriting of Mr. Polteed remained unopened in Soames' pocket throughout two hours

of sustained attention to the affairs of the 'New Colliery Company,' which, declining almost from the moment

of old Jolyon's retirement from the Chairmanship, had lately run down so fast that there was now nothing for

it but a 'windingup.' He took the letter out to lunch at his City Club, sacred to him for the meals he had eaten

there with his father in the early seventies, when James used to like him to come and see far himself the

Here in a remote corner before a plate of roast mutton and mashed potato, he read:

"In accordance with your suggestion we have duly taken the matter up at the other end with gratifying results.

Observation of 47 has enabled us to locate 17 at the Green Hotel, Richmond. The two have been observed to

meet daily during the past week in Richmond Park. Nothing absolutely crucial has so far been notified. But in

conjunction with what we had from Paris at the beginning of the year, I am confident we could now satisfy

the Court. We shall, of course, continue to watch the matter until we hear from you.

And, paying for what he had not eaten, he went out, passing two acquaintances without sign of recognition.

'Satisfy the Court!' he thought, sitting at a little round marble table with the coffee before him. That fellow

Jolyon! He poured out his coffee, sweetened and drank it. He would disgrace him in the eyes of his own

children! And rising, with that resolution hot within him, he found for the first time the inconvenience of

being his own solicitor. He could not treat this scandalous matter in his own office. He must commit the soul

of his private dignity to a stranger, some other professional dealer in family dishonour. Who was there he

could go to? Linkman and Laver in Budge Row, perhapsreliable, not too conspicuous, only nodding

acquaintances. But before he saw them he must see Polteed again. But at this thought Soames had a moment

of sheer weakness. To part with his secret? How find the words? How subject himself to contempt and secret

laughter? Yet, after all, the fellow knew alreadyoh yes, he knew! And, feeling that he must finish with it

In this hot weather the window of Mr. Polteed's room was positively open, and the only precaution was a

wire gauze, preventing the intrusion of flies. Two or three had tried to come in, and been caught, so that they

seemed to be clinging there with the intention of being devoured presently. Mr. Polteed, following the

'Posing ass!' thought Soames. Like all who fundamentally believe in themselves he was rising to the

occasion, and, with his little sideway smile, he said: "I've had your letter. I'm going to act. I suppose you

know who the lady you've been watching really is?" Mr. Polteed's expression at that moment was a

masterpiece. It so clearly said: 'Well, what do you think? But mere professional knowledge, I assure

youpray forgive it!' He made a little half airy movement with his hand, as who should say: 'Such

"Very well, then," said Soames, moistening his lips: "there's no need to say more. I'm instructing Linkman

and Laver of Budge Row to act for me. I don't want to hear your evidence, but kindly make your report to

Mr. Polteed half closed his eyes, as if to comply at once. "My dear sir," he said.

"You can risk it," he murmured; "with what we have, and human nature, you can risk it."

Soames rose. "You will ask for Mr. Linkman. Thanks; don't get up." He could not bear Mr. Polteed to slide as

usual between him and the door. In the sunlight of Piccadilly he wiped his forehead. This had been the worst

of ithe could stand the strangers better. And he went back into the City to do what still lay before him.

That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was overwhelmed by his old longing for a sona

son, to watch him eat as he went down the years, to be taken on his knee as James on a time had been wont to

take him; a son of his own begetting, who could understand him because he was the same flesh and blood

understand, and comfort him, and become more rich and cultured than himself because he would start even

better off. To get oldlike that thin, grey wiryfrail figure sitting thereand be quite alone with

possessions heaping up around him; to take no interest in anything because it had no future and must pass

away from him to hands and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no jot! No! He would force it through now,

and be free to marry, and have a son to care for him before he grew to be like the old old man his father,

In that mood he went up to bed. But, lying warm between those fine linen sheets of Emily's providing, he was

visited by memories and torture. Visions of Irene, almost the solid feeling of her body, beset him. Why had

he ever been fool enough to see her again, and let this flood back on him so that it was pain to think of her

His boy was seldom absent from Jolyon's mind in the days which followed the first walk with Irene in

Richmond Park. No further news had come; enquiries at the War Office elicited nothing; nor could he expect

to hear from June and Holly for three weeks at least. In these days he felt how insufficient were his memories

of Jolly, and what an amateur of a father he had been. There was not a single memory in which anger played

a part; not one reconciliation, because there had never been a rupture; nor one hearttoheart confidence, not

even when Jolly's mother died. Nothing but halfironical affection. He had been too afraid of committing

himself in any direction, for fear of losing his liberty, or interfering with that of his boy.

Only in Irene's presence had he relief, highly complicated by the evergrowing perception of how divided he

was between her and his son. With Jolly was bound up all that sense of continuity and social creed of which

he had drunk deeply in his youth and again during his boy's public school and varsity lifeall that sense of

not going back on what father and son expected of each other. With Irene was bound up all his delight in

beauty and in Nature. And he seemed to know less and less which was the stronger within him. >From such

sentimental paralysis he was rudely awakened, however, one afternoon, just as he was starting off to

Richmond, by a young man with a bicycle and a face oddly familiar, who came forward faintly smiling.

"Mr. Jolyon Forsyte? Thank you!" Placing an envelope in Jolyon's hand he wheeled off the path and rode

A sensation of shame and disgust was followed by the instant reaction 'Why, here's the very thing you want,

and you don't like it!' But she must have had one too; and he must go to her at once. He turned things over as

he went along. It was an ironical busi ness. For, whatever the Scriptures said about the heart, it took more

than mere longings to satisfy the law. They could perfectly well defend this suit, or at least in good faith try

to. But the idea of doing so revolted Jolyon. If not her lover in deed he was in desire, and he knew that she

was ready to come to him. Her face had told him so. Not that he exaggerated her feeling for him. She had had

her grand passion, and he could not expect another from her at his age. But she had trust in him, affection for

him, and must feel that he would be a refuge. Surely she would not ask him to defend the suit, knowing that

he adored her! Thank Heaven she had not that maddening British conscientiousness which refused happiness

for the sake of refusing! She must rejoice at this chance of being free after seventeen years of death in life! As

to publicity, the fat was in the fire! To defend the suit would not take away the slur. Jolyon had all the proper

feeling of a Forsyte whose privacy is threatened: If he was to be hung by the Law, by all means let it be for a

sheep! Moreover the notion of standing in a witness box and swearing to the truth that no gesture, not even a

word of love had passed between them seemed to him more degrading than to take the tacit stigma of being

an adulterermore truly degrading, considering the feeling in his heart, and just as bad and painful for his

children. The thought of explaining away, if he could, before a judge and twelve average Englishmen, their

meetings in Paris, and the walks in Richmond Park, horrified him. The brutality and hypocritical

censoriousness of the whole process; the probability that they would not be believedthe mere vision of her,

whom he looked on as the embodiment of Nature and of Beauty, standing there before all those suspicious,

gloating eyes was hideous to him. No, no! To defend a suit only made a London holiday, and sold the

'Besides,' he thought honestly, 'who knows whether, even for my boy's sake, I could have stood this state of

things much longer? Anyway, her neck will be out of chancery at last!' Thus absorbed, he was hardly

conscious of the heavy heat. The sky had become overcast, purplish with little streaks of white. A heavy

heatdrop plashed a little star pattern in the dust of the road as he entered the Park. 'Phew!' he thought,

'thunder! I hope she's not come to meet me; there's a ducking up there!' But at that very minute he saw Irene

The storm had passed over the Poultry at four o'clock, bringing welcome distraction to the clerks in every

"In accordance with your instructions, we beg to inform you that we personally served the respondent and

corespondent in this suit today, at Richmond, and Robin Hill, respectively. "Faithfully yours,

For some minutes Soames stared at that note. Ever since he had given those instructions he had been tempted

to annul them. It was so scandalous, such a general disgrace! The evidence, too, what he had heard of it, had

never seemed to him conclusive; somehow, he believed less and less that those two had gone all lengths. But

this, of course, would drive them to it; and he suffered from the thought. That fellow to have her love, where

he had failed! Was it too late? Now that they had been brought up sharp by service of this petition, had he not

a lever with which he could force them apart? 'But if I don't act at once,' he thought, 'it will be too late, now

And, sick with nervous anxiety, he sent out for one of the 'newfangled' motorcabs. It might take a long

time to run that fellow to ground, and Goodness knew what decision they might come to after such a shock!

'If I were a theatrical ass,' he thought, 'I suppose I should be taking a horsewhip or a pistol or something!' He

took instead a bundle of papers in the case of 'Magentie versus Wake,' intending to read them on the way

down. He did not even open them, but sat quite still, jolted and jarred, unconscious of the draught down the

back of his neck, or the smell of petrol. He must be guided by the fellow's attitude; the great thing was to

London had already begun to disgorge its workers as he neared Putney Bridge; the antheap was on the move

outwards. What a lot of ants, all with a living to get, holding on by their eyelids in the great scramble!

Perhaps for the first time in his life Soames thought: 'I could let go if I liked! Nothing could touch me; I could

snap my fingers, live as I wishedenjoy myself!' No! One could not live as he had and just drop it

allsettle down in Capua, to spend the money and reputation he had made. A man's life was what he

possessed and sought to possess. Only fools thought otherwisefools, and socialists, and libertines!

The cab was passing villas now, going a great pace. 'Fifteen miles an hour, I should think!' he mused; 'this'll

take people out of town to live!' and he thought of its bearing on the portions of London owned by his

fatherhe himself had never taken to that form of investment, the gambler in him having all the outlet

needed in his pictures. And the cab sped on, down the hill past Wimbledon Common. This interview! Surely

a man of fiftytwo with grownup children, and hung on the line, would not be reckless. 'He won't want to

disgrace the family,' he thought; 'he was as fond of his father as I am of mine, and they were brothers. That

woman brings destructionwhat is it in her? I've never known.' The cab branched off, along the side of a

wood, and he heard a late cuckoo calling, almost the first he had heard that year. He was now almost opposite

the site he had originally chosen for his house, and which had been so unceremoniously rejected by Bosinney

in favour of his own choice. He began passing his handkerchief over his face and hands, taking deep breaths

The cab turned in at the drive which might have been his own, and the sound of music met him. He had

"I may be out again directly," he said to the driver, "or I may be kept some time"; and he rang the bell.

Following the maid through the curtains into the inner hall, he felt relieved that the impact of this meeting

would be broken by June or Holly, whichever was playing in there, so that with complete surprise he saw

Irene at the piano, and Jolyon sitting in an armchair listening. They both stood up. Blood surged into Soames'

brain, and all his resolution to be guided by this or that left him utterly. The look of 'his farmer

forbearsdogged Forsytes down by the sea, from 'Superior Dosset' backgrinned out of his face.

"This is hardly the placewe'll go to the study, if you don't mind." And they both passed him through the

curtain opening. In the little room to which he followed them, Irene stood by the open window, and the

'fellow' close to her by a big chair. Soames pulled the door to behind him with a slam; the sound carried him

back all those years to the day when he had shut out Jolyonshut him out for meddling with his affairs.

"What we have received today has taken away your right to ask. I should imagine you will be glad to have

"Oh!" said Soames; "you think so! I came to tell you that I'll divorce her with every circumstance of disgrace

He was astonished at his fluency, because his mind was stammering and his hands twitching. Neither of them

"Yes, guilty." It was Irene speaking in that serene voice, with that unreached air which had maddened him so

That fellow to talk of injuries! Did he know how near his throat was to being scragged?

"A trustee," he said, "embezzling trust property! A thief, stealing his cousin's wife."

"Call me what you like. You have chosen your part, we have chosen ours. Go out!"

At that deadly turning of the meaning of his speech by the son of him who had nicknamed him 'the man of

There they were, kept from violence by some secret force. No blow possible, no words to meet the case. But

he could not, did not know how to turn and go away. His eyes fastened on Irene's face the last time he

He saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not quite relief, he wrenched open the door, passed

out through the hall, and got into his cab. He lolled against the cushion with his eyes shut. Never in his life

had he been so near to murderous violence, never so thrown away the restraint which was his second nature.

He had a stripped and naked feeling, as if all virtue had gone out of himlife meaningless, mindstriking

work. Sunlight streamed in on him, but he felt cold. The scene he had passed through had gone from him

already, what was before him would not materialise, he could catch on to nothing; and he felt frightened, as if

he had been hanging over the edge of a precipice, as if with another turn of the screw sanity would have

failed him. 'I'm not fit for it,' he thought; 'I mustn'tI'm not fit for it.' The cab sped on, and in mechanical

procession trees, houses, people passed, but had no significance. 'I feel very queer,' he thought; 'I'll take a

Turkish bath. I've been very near to something. It won't do.' The cab whirred its way back over the bridge,

Curious that on so warm a summer day, heat should be so comforting! Crossing into the hot room he met

"Hallo!" said George; "what are you training for? You've not got much superfluous."

Buffoon! Soames passed him with his sideway smile. Lying back, rubbing his skin uneasily for the first signs

of perspiration, he thought: 'Let them laugh! I won't feel anything! I can't stand violence! It's not good for

Soames left dead silence in the little study. "Thank you for that good lie," said Jolyon suddenly. "Come

In front of a long high southerly wall on which were trained peachtrees the two walked up and down in

silence. Old Jolyon had planted some cupressustrees, at intervals, between this grassy terrace and the

dipping meadow full of buttercups and oxeyed daisies; for twelve years they had flourished, till their dark

spiral shapes had quite a look of Italy. Birds fluttered softly in the wet shrubbery; the swallows swooped past,

with a steelblue sheen on their swift little bodies; the grass felt springy beneath the feet, its green refreshed;

butterflies chased each other. After that painful scene the quiet of Nature was wonderfully poignant. Under

the sunsoaked wall ran a narrow strip of gardenbed full of mignonette and pansies, and from the bees came

a low hum in which all other sounds were setthe mooing of a cow deprived of her calf, the calling of a

cuckoo from an elmtree at the bottom of the meadow. Who would have thought that behind them, within ten

miles, London beganthat London of the Forsytes, with its wealth, its misery; its dirt and noise; its jumbled

stone isles of beauty, its grey sea of hideous brick and stucco? That London which had seen Irene's early

tragedy, and Jolyon's own hard days; that web; that princely workhouse of the possessive instinct!

And while they walked Jolyon pondered those words: 'I hope you'll treat him as you treated me.' That would

depend on himself. Could he trust himself? Did Nature permit a Forsyte not to make a slave of what he

adored? Could beauty be confided to him? Or should she not be just a visitor, coming when she would,

possessed for moments which passed, to return only at her own choosing? 'We are a breed of spoilers!'

thought Jolyon, 'close and greedy; the bloom of life is not safe with us. Let her come to me as she will, when

she will, not at all if she will not. Let me be just her standby, her perchingplace; nevernever her cage!'

She was the chink of beauty in his dream. Was he to pass through the curtains now and reach her? Was the

rich stuff of many possessions, the close encircling fabric of the possessive instinct walling in that little black

figure of himself, and Soameswas it to be rent so that he could pass through into his vision, find there

something not of the senses only? 'Let me,' he thought, 'ah! let me only know how not to grasp and destroy!'

But at dinner there were plans to be made. Tonight she would go back to the hotel, but tomorrow he would

take her up to London. He must instruct his solicitorJack Herring. Not a finger must be raised to hinder the

process of the Law. Damages exemplary, judicial strictures, costs, what they likedlet it go through at the

first moment, so that her neck might be out of chancery at last! Tomorrow he would see Herringthey

would go and see him together. And thenabroad, leaving no doubt, no difficulty about evidence, making

the lie she had told into the truth. He looked round at her; and it seemed to his adoring eyes that more than a

woman was sitting there. The spirit of universal beauty, deep, mysterious, which the old painters, Titian,

Giorgione, Botticelli, had known how to capture and transfer to the faces of their women this flying beauty

After dinner they went out on to the terrace to have coffee. They sat there long, the evening was so lovely,

watching the summer night come very slowly on. It was still warm and the air smelled of lime

blossomearly this summer. Two bats were flighting with the faint mysterious little noise they make. He

had placed the chairs in front of the study window, and moths flew past to visit the discreet light in there.

There was no wind, and not a whisper in the old oaktree twenty yards away! The moon rose from behind the

copse, nearly full; and the two lights struggled, till moonlight conquered, changing the colour and quality of

all the garden, stealing along the flagstones, reaching their feet, climbing up, changing their faces.

"Well," said Jolyon at last, "you'll be tired, dear; we'd better start. The maid will show you Holly's room," and

he rang the study bell. The maid who came handed him a telegram. Watching her take Irene away, he

thought: 'This must have come an hour or more ago, and she didn't bring it out to us! That shows! Well, we'll

He dropped it, spun round, stood motionless. The moon shone in on him; a moth flew in his face. The first

day of all that he had not thought almost ceaselessly of Jolly. He went blindly towards the window, struck

against the old armchairhis father'sand sank down on to the arm of it. He sat there huddled' forward,

staring into the night. Gone out like a candle flame; far from home, from love, all by himself, in the dark! His

boy! From a little chap always so good to himso friendly! Twenty years old, and cut down like grassto

have no life at all! 'I didn't really know him,' he thought, 'and he didn't know me; but we loved each other. It's

To die out therelonelywanting themwanting home! This seemed to his Forsyte heart more painful,

more pitiful than death itself. No shelter, no protection, no love at the last! And all the deeply rooted clanship

in him, the family feeling and essential clinging to his own flesh and blood which had been so strong in old

Jolyon was so strong in all the Forsytesfelt outraged, cut, and torn by his boy's lonely passing. Better far if

he had died in battle, without time to long for them to come to him, to call out for them, perhaps, in his

The moon had passed behind the oaktree now, endowing it with uncanny life, so that it seemed watching

himthe oaktree his boy had been so fond of climbing, out of which he had once fallen and hurt himself,

The door creaked. He saw Irene come in, pick up the telegram and read it. He heard the faint rustle of her

dress. She sank on her knees close to him, and he forced himself to smile at her. She stretched up her arms

and drew his head down on her shoulder. The perfume and warmth of her encircled him; her presence gained

Sweated to serenity, Soames dined at the Remove and turned his face toward Park Lane. His father had been

unwell lately. This would have to be kept from him! Never till that moment had he realised how much the

dread of bringing James' grey hairs down with sorrow to the grave had counted with him; how intimately it

was bound up with his own shrinking from scandal. His affection for his father, always deep, had increased of

late years with the knowledge that James looked on him as the real prop of his decline. It seemed pitiful that

one who had been so careful all his life and done so much for the family nameso that it was almost a

byword for solid, wealthy respectabilityshould at his last gasp have to see it in all the newspapers. This

was like lending a hand to Death, that final enemy of Forsytes. 'I must tell mother,' he thought, 'and when it

comes on, we must keep the papers from him somehow. He sees hardly anyone.' Letting himself in with his

latchkey, he was beginning to ascend he stairs when he became conscious of commotion on the secondfloor

"You can speak to him tomorrow morning, instead of making a guy of yourself on the landing."

"You shan't have to wait till tomorrow morning; I'll go down and bring him up. Don't fuss!"

"Well, if he doesn't come in you won't catch him by standing out here in your dressinggown."

Soames rounded the last bend and came in sight of his father's tall figure wrapped in a brown silk quilted

gown, stooping over the balustrade above. Light fell on his silvery hair and whiskers, investing his head with,

"Here he is!" he heard him say in a voice which sounded injured, and his mother's comfortable answer from

"That's all right. Come in, and I'll brush your hair." James extended a thin, crooked finger, oddly like the

His father was sitting before the dressingtable sideways to the mirror, while Emily slowly passed two

silverbacked brushes through and through his hair. She would do this several times a day, for it had on him

Soames stroked his shoulder, and, taking up a silver buttonhook, examined the mark on it.

"I want to say something. Your mother hasn't heard." He announced Emily's ignorance of what he hadn't told

"Your father's been in a great state all the evening. I'm sure I don't know what about."

"No! you know nothing," said James. "Soames can tell me." And, fixing his grey eyes, in which there was a

"I'm getting on, Soames. At my age I can't tell. I might die any time. There'll be a lot of money. There's

Rachel and Cicely got no children; and Val's out therethat chap his father will get hold of all he can. And

Soames listened vaguelyhe had heard all this before. Whish whish! went the brushes.

"All!" cried James; "it's nothing. I'm coming to that." And again his eyes strained pitifully at Soames.

That word, from those of all lips, was almost too much for Soames' composure. His eyes reconcentrated

"I don't know what's become of herthey say she's abroad. Your Uncle Swithin used to admire herhe was

a funny fellow." (So he always alluded to his dead twin'The Stout and the Lean of it,' they had been called.)

"She wouldn't be alone, I should say." And with that summingup of the effect of beauty on human nature, he

was silent, watching his son with eyes doubting as a bird's. Soames, too, was silent. Whishwhish went the

"Ah!" said James, and the word came from deep down; "but there's all my money, and there's hiswho's it

Soames replaced the buttonhook on the lace and pink silk of the dressingtable coverlet.

"As if that helped me," muttered James. "I shall be in my grave, and there'll be nobody, unless he marries

"Well," said Emily, "who would have imagined you wanted it? My dear boy, that is a surprise, after all these

"It'll be a scandal," muttered James, as if to himself; "but I can't help that. Don't brush so hard. When'll it

James' lips moved in secret calculation. "I shan't live to see my grandson," he muttered.

Emily ceased brushing. "Of course you will, James. Soames will be as quick as he can."

"Here! let's have the eaudeCologne," and, putting it to his nose, he moved his forehead in the direction of

his son. Soames bent over and kissed that brow just where the hair began. A relaxing quiver passed over

"I'll get to bed," he said; "I shan't want to see the papers when that comes. They're a morbid lot; I can't pay

On Forsyte 'Change the announcement of Jolly's death, among a batch of troopers, caused mixed sensation.

Strange to read that Jolyon Forsyte (fifth of the name in direct descent) had died of disease in the service of

his country, and not be able to feel it personally. It revived the old grudge against his father for having

estranged himself. For such was still the prestige of old Jolyon that the other Forsytes could never quite feel,

as might have been expected, that it was they who had cut off his descendants for irregularity. The news

increased, of course, the interest and anxiety about Val; but then Val's name was Dartie, and even if he were

killed in battle or got the Victoria Cross, it would not be at all the same as if his name were Forsyte. Not even

casualty or glory to the Haymans would be really satisfactory. Family pride felt defrauded.

How the rumour arose, then, that 'something very dreadful, my dear,' was pending, no one, least of all

Soames, could tell, secret as he kept everything. Possibly some eye had seen 'Forsyte v. Forsyte and Forsyte,'

in the cause list; and had added it to 'Irene in Paris with a fair beard.' Possibly some wall at Park Lane had

ears. The fact remained that it was knownwhispered among the old, discussed among the youngthat

Soames, paying one, of his Sunday visits to Timothy'spaying it with the feeling that after the suit came on

he would be paying no morefelt knowledge in the air as he came in. Nobody, of course, dared speak of it

before him, but each of the four other Forsytes present held their breath, aware that nothing could prevent

Aunt Juley from making them all uncomfortable. She looked so piteously at Soames, she checked herself on

the point of speech so often, that Aunt Hester excused herself and said she must go and bathe Timothy's

eyehe had a sty coming. Soames, impassive, slightly supercilious, did not stay long. He went out with a

Fortunately for the peace of his mind, cruelly tortured by the coming scandal, he was kept busy day and night

with plans for his retirementfor he had come to that grim conclusion. To go on seeing all those people who

had known him as a 'longheaded chap,' an astute adviserafter thatno! The fastidiousness and pride

which was so strangely, so inextricably blended in him with possessive obtuseness, revolted against the

thought. He would retire, live privately, go on buying pictures, make a great name as a collectorafter all,

his heart was more in that than it had ever been in Law. In pursuance of this now fixed resolve, he had to get

ready to amalgamate his business with another firm without letting people know, for that would excite

curiosity and make humiliation cast its shadow before. He had pitched on the firm of Cuthcott, Holliday and

Kingson, two of whom were dead. The full name after the amalgamation would therefore be Cuthcott,

Holliday, Kingson, Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. But after debate as to which of the dead still had any

influence with the living, it was decided to reduce the title to Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte, of whom

Kingson would be the active and Soames the sleeping partner. For leaving his name, prestige, and clients

One night, as befitted a man who had arrived at so important a stage of his career, he made a calculation of

what he was worth, and after writing off liberally for depreciation by the war, found his value to be some

hundred and thirty thousand pounds. At his father's death, which could not, alas, be delayed much longer, he

must come into at least another fifty thousand, and his yearly expenditure at present just reached two.

Standing among his pictures, he saw before him a future full of bargains earned by the trained faculty of

knowing better than other people. Selling what was about to decline, keeping what was still going up, and

exercising judicious insight into future taste, he would make a unique collection, which at his death would

If the divorce went through, he had determined on his line with Madame Lamotte. She had, he knew, but one

real ambitionto live on her 'renter' in Paris near her grandchildren. He would buy the goodwill of the

Restaurant Bretagne at a fancy price. Madame would live like a QueenMother in Paris on the interest,

invested as she would know how. (Incidentally Soames meant to put a capable manager in her place, and

make the restaurant pay good interest on his money. There were great possibilities in Soho.) On Annette he

would promise to settle fifteen thousand pounds (whether designedly or not), precisely the sum old Jolyon

A letter from Jolyon's solicitor to his own had disclosed the fact that 'those two' were in Italy. And an

opportunity had been duly given for noting that they had first stayed at an hotel in London. The matter was

clear as daylight, and would be disposed of in half an hour or so; but during that halfhour he, Soames,

would go down to hell; and after that halfhour all bearers of the Forsyte name would feel the bloom was off

the rose. He had no illusions like Shakespeare that roses by any other name would smell as sweet. The name

was a possession, a concrete, unstained piece of property, the value of which would be reduced some twenty

per cent. at least. Unless it were Roger, who had once refused to stand for Parliament, andoh,

irony!Jolyon, hung on the line, there had never been a distinguished Forsyte. But that very lack of

distinction was the name's greatest asset. It was a private name, intensely individual, and his own property; it

had never been exploited for good or evil by intrusive report. He and each member of his family owned it

wholly, sanely, secretly, without any more interference from the public than had been necessitated by their

births, their marriages, their deaths. And during these weeks of waiting and preparing to drop the Law, he

conceived for that Law a bitter distaste, so deeply did he resent its coming violation of his name, forced on

him by the need he felt to perpetuate that name in a lawful manner. The monstrous injustice of the whole

thing excited in him a perpetual suppressed fury. He had asked no better than to live in spotless domesticity,

and now he must go into the witness box, after all these futile, barren years, and proclaim his failure to keep

his wifeincur the pity, the amusement, the contempt of his kind. It was all upside down. She and that

fellow ought to be the sufferers, and theywere in Italy! In these weeks the Law he had served so faithfully,

looked on so reverently as the guardian of all property, seemed to him quite pitiful. What could be more

insane than to tell a man that he owned his wife, and punish him when someone unlawfully took her away

from him? Did the Law not know that a man's name was to him the apple of his eye, that it was far harder to

be regarded as cuckold than as seducer? He actually envied Jolyon the reputation of succeeding where he,

Soames, had failed. The question of damages worried him, too. He wanted to make that fellow suffer, but he

remembered his cousin's words, "I shall be very happy," with the uneasy feeling that to claim damages would

make not Jolyon but himself suffer; he felt uncannily that Jolyon would rather like to pay themthe chap

was so loose. Besides, to claim damages was not the thing to do. The claim, indeed, had been made almost

mechanically; and as the hour drew near Soames saw in it just another dodge of this insensitive and

topsyturvy Law to make him ridiculous; so that people might sneer and say: "Oh, yes, he got quite a good

price for her!" And he gave instructions that his Counsel should state that the money would be given to a

Home for Fallen Women. He was a long time hitting off exactly the right charity; but, having pitched on it,

he used to wake up in the night and think: 'It won't do, too lurid; it'll draw attention. Something

quieterbetter taste.' He did not care for dogs, or he would have named them; and it was in desperation at

lastfor his knowledge of charities was limited that he decided on the blind. That could not be

A good many suits were dropping out of the list, which happened to be exceptionally thin that summer, so

that his case would be reached before August. As the day grew nearer, Winifred was his only comfort. She

showed the fellowfeeling of one who had been through the mill, and was the 'femmesole' in whom he

confided, well knowing that she would not let Dartie into her confidence. That ruffian would be only too

rejoiced! At the end of July, on the afternoon before the case, he went in to see her. They had not yet been

able to leave town, because Dartie had already spent their summer holiday, and Winifred dared not go to her

father for more money while he was waiting not to be told anything about this affair of Soames.

"Awkward! Well, I don't suppose they'll hear about this till they come back. They'd better stay out there. That

"But I want Val back," said Winifred almost piteously; "I miss him, he helps me to get on."

"It might be worse; but it's always money. Would you like me to come down to the Court tomorrow,

Soames stretched out his hand for hers. The gesture so betrayed the loneliness in him that she pressed it

"I don't know what I've done," said Soames huskily; "I never have. It's all upside down. I was fond of her;

Winifred saw a drop of blood ooze out of his lip, and the sight stirred her profoundly.

"Of course," she said, "it's been too bad of her all along! But what shall I do about this marriage of Val's,

Soames? I don't know how to write to him, with this coming on. You've seen that child. Is she pretty?"

"Mustn't be told," said Soames. "The war'll soon be over now, you'd better let Val take to farming out there."

The case was reached before noon next day, and was over in little more than half an hour. Soamespale,

spruce, sadeyed in the witnessboxhad suffered so much beforehand that he took it all like one dead. The

Four hours until he became public property! 'Solicitor's divorce suit!' A surly, dogged anger replaced that

dead feeling within him. 'Damn them all!' he thought; 'I won't run away. I'll act as if nothing had happened.'

And in the sweltering heat of Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill he walked all the way to his City Club, lunched,

On his way out he saw that his clerks knew, and answered their involuntary glances with a look so sardonic

that they were immediately withdrawn. In front of St. Paul's, he stopped to buy the most gentlemanly of the

evening papers. Yes! there he was! 'Wellknown solicitor's divorce. Cousin corespondent. Damages given

to the blind'so, they had got that in! At every other face, he thought: 'I wonder if you know!' And suddenly

What was this? He was letting it get hold of him! He mustn't! He would be ill. He mustn't think! He would

get down to the river and row about, and fish. 'I'm not going to be laid up,' he thought.

It flashed across him that he had something of importance to do before he went out of town. Madame

Lamotte! He must explain the Law. Another six months before he was really free! Only he did not want to

He branched off through Covent Garden. On this sultry day of late July the garbagetainted air of the old

market offended him, and Soho seemed more than ever the disenchanted home of rapscallionism. Alone, the

Restaurant Bretagne, neat, daintily painted, with its blue tubs and the dwarf trees therein, retained an aloof

and Frenchified selfrespect. It was the slack hour, and pale trim waitresses were preparing the little tables

for dinner. Soames went through into the private part. To his discomfiture Annette answered his knock. She,

It seemed to Soames that she looked at him in a queer way. What did she know? How much had her mother

told her? The worry of trying to make that out gave him an alarming feeling in the head. He gripped the edge

of the table, and dizzily saw Annette come forward, her eyes clear with surprise. He shut his own and said:

"It's all right. I've had a touch of the sun, I think." The sun! What he had was a touch of 'darkness! Annette's

"Sit down, it will pass, then." Her hand pressed his shoulder, and Soames sank into a chair. When the dark

feeling dispersed, and he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him. What an inscrutable and odd

"It's nothing," said Soames. Instinct told him that to be feeble before her was not helping himage was

enough handicap without that. Willpower was his fortune with Annette, he had lost ground these latter

months from indecisionhe could not afford to lose any more. He got up, and said:

"I'll write to your mother. I'm going down to my river house for a long holiday. I want you both to come there

"It will be veree nice." A pretty little roll of that 'r' but no enthusiasm. And rather sadly he added:

"You're feeling the heat; too, aren't you, Annette? It'll do you good to be on the river. Goodnight." Annette

She held out her hand, and Soames raised it to his lips. When he looked up, her face wore again that strange

expression. ' I can't tell,' he thought, as he went out; 'but I mustn't thinkI mustn't worry:

But worry he did, walking toward Pall Mall. English, not of her religion, middleaged, scarred as it were by

domestic tragedy, what had he to give her? Only wealth, social position, leisure, admiration! It was much, but

was it enough for a beautiful girl of twenty? He felt so ignorant about Annette. He had, too, a curious fear of

the French nature of her mother and herself. They knew so well what they wanted. They were almost

The tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to Madame Lamotte when he reached his Club warned

"You will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that I obtained my decree of divorce today. By the English

Law I shall not, however, be free to marry again till the decree is confirmed six months hence. In the

meanwhile I have the honor to ask to be considered a formal suitor for the hand of your daughter. I shall write

again in a few days and beg you both to come and stay at my river house. "I am, dear Madame, "Sincerely

Having sealed and posted this letter, he went into the diningroom. Three mouthfuls of soup convinced him

that he could not eat; and, causing a cab to be summoned, he drove to Paddington Station and took the first

train to Reading. He reached his house just as the sun went down, and wandered out on to the lawn. The air

was drenched with the scent of pinks and picotees in his flower borders. A stealing coolness came off the

Restpeace! Let a poor fellow rest! Let not worry and shame and anger chase like evil nightbirds in his head!

Like those doves perched halfsleeping on their dovecot, like the furry creatures in the woods on the far side,

and the simple folk in their cottages, like the trees and the river itself, whitening fast in twilight, like the

darkening cornflowerblue sky where stars were coming up let him cease from himself, and rest!

The marriage of Soames with Annette took place in Paris on the last day of January, 1901, with such privacy

The day after the wedding he brought her to one of those quiet hotels in London where greater expense can

be incurred for less result than anywhere else under heaven. Her beauty in the best Parisian frocks was giving

him more satisfaction than if he had collected a perfect bit of china, or a jewel of a picture; he looked forward

to the moment when he would exhibit her in Park Lane, in Green Street, and at Timothy's.

If some one had asked him in those days, "In confidenceare you in love with this girl?" he would have

replied: "In love? What is love? If you mean do I feel to her as I did towards Irene in those old days when I

first met her and she would not have me; when I sighed and starved after her and couldn't rest a minute until

she yieldedno! If you mean do I admire her youth and prettiness, do my senses ache a little when I see her

moving aboutyes! Do I think she will keep me straight, make me a creditable wife and a good mother for

"What more do I need? and what more do threequarters of the women who are married get from the men

who marry them?" And if the enquirer had pursued his query, "And do you think it was fair to have tempted

this girl to give herself to you for life unless you have really touched her heart?" he would have answered:

"The French see these things differently from us. They look at marriage from the point of view of

establishments and children; and, from my own experience, I am not at all sure that theirs is not the sensible

view. I shall not expect this time more than I can get, or she can give. Years hence I shouldn't be surprised if I

have trouble with her; but I shall be getting old, I shall have children by then. I shall shut my eyes. I have had

my great passion; hers is perhaps to comeI don't suppose it will be for me. I offer her a great deal, and I

don't expect much in return, except children, or at least a son. But one thing I am sure ofshe has very good

And if, insatiate, the enquirer had gone on, "You do not look, then, for spiritual union in this marriage?"

Soames would have lifted his sideway smile, and rejoined: "That's as it may be. If I get satisfaction for my

senses, perpetuation of myself; good taste and good humour in the house; it is all I can expect at my age. I am

not likely to be going out of my way towards any farfetched sentimentalism." Whereon, the enquirer must in

The Queen was dead, and the air of the greatest city upon earth grey with unshed tears. Furcoated and

tophatted, with Annette beside him in dark furs, Soames crossed Park Lane on the morning of the funeral

procession, to the rails in Hyde Park. Little moved though he ever was by public matters, this event,

supremely symbolical, this summingup of a long rich period, impressed his fancy. In '37, when she came to

the throne, 'Superior Dosset' was still building houses to make London hideous; and James, a stripling of

twentysix, just laying the foundations of his practice in the Law. Coaches still ran; men wore stocks, shaved

their upper lips, ate oysters out of barrels; 'tigers' swung behind cabriolets; women said, 'La!' and owned no

property; there were manners in the land, and pigsties for the poor; unhappy devils were hanged for little

crimes, and Dickens had but just begun to write. Wellnigh two generations had slipped byof steamboats,

railways, telegraphs, bicycles, electric light, telephones, and now these motorcarsof such accumulated

wealth, that eight per cent. had become three, and Forsytes were numbered by the thousand! Morals had

changed, manners had changed, men had become monkeys twice removed, God had become

MammonMammon so respectable as to deceive himself: Sixtyfour years that favoured property, and had

made the upper middle class; buttressed, chiselled, polished it, till it was almost indistinguishable in manners,

morals, speech, appearance, habit, and soul from the nobility. An epoch which had gilded individual liberty

so that if a man had money, he was free in law and fact, and if he had not money he was free in law and not in

fact. An era which had canonised hypocrisy, so that to seem to be respectable was to be. A great Age, whose

transmuting influence nothing had escaped save the nature of man and the nature of the Universe.

And to witness the passing of this Age, Londonits pet and fancy was pouring forth her citizens through

every gate into Hyde Park, hub of Victorianism, happy huntingground of Forsytes. Under the grey heavens,

whose drizzle just kept off, the dark concourse gathered to see the show. The 'good old' Queen, full of years

and virtue, had emerged from her seclusion for the last time to make a London holiday. From Houndsditch,

Acton, Ealing, Hampstead, Islington, and Bethnal Green; from Hackney, Hornsey, Leytonstone, Battersea,

and Fulham; and from those green pastures where Forsytes flourishMayfair and Kensington, St. James'

and Belgravia, Bayswater and Chelsea and the Regent's Park, the people swarmed down on to the roads

where death would presently pass with dusky pomp and pageantry. Never again would a Queen reign so long,

or people have a chance to see so much history buried for their money. A pity the war dragged on, and that

the Wreath of Victory could not be laid upon her coffin! All else would be there to follow and

commemoratesoldiers, sailors, foreign princes, halfmasted bunting, tolling bells, and above all the

surging, great, darkcoated crowd, with perhaps a simple sadness here and there deep in hearts beneath black

clothes put on by regulation. After all, more than a Queen was going to her rest, a woman who had braved

Out in the crowd against the railings, with his arm hooked in Annette's, Soames waited. Yes! the Age was

passing! What with this Trade Unionism, and Labour fellows in the House of Commons, with continental

fiction, and something in the general feel of everything, not to be expressed in words, things were very

different; he recalled the crowd on Mafeking night, and George Forsyte saying: "They're all socialists, they

want our goods." Like James, Soames didn't know, he couldn't tellwith Edward on the throne! Things

would never be as safe again as under good old Viccy! Convulsively he pressed his young wife's arm. There,

at any rate, was something substantially his own, domestically certain again at last; something which made

property worth whilea real thing once more. Pressed close against her and trying to ward others off,

Soames was content. The crowd swayed round them, ate sandwiches and dropped crumbs; boys who had

climbed the planetrees chattered above like monkeys, threw twigs and orangepeel. It was past time; they

should be coming soon! And, suddenly, a little behind them to the left, he saw a tallish man with a soft hat

and short grizzling beard, and a tallish woman in a little round fur cap and veil. Jolyon and Irene talking,

smiling at each other, close together like Annette and himself! They had not seen him; and stealthily, with a

very queer feeling in his heart, Soames watched those two. They looked happy! What had they come here

forinherently illicit creatures, rebels from the Victorian ideal? What business had they in this crowd? Each

of them twice exiled by moralitymaking a boast, as it were, of love and laxity! He watched them

fascinated; admitting grudgingly even with his arm thrust through Annette's thatthat sheIreneNo! he

would not admit it; and he turned his eyes away. He would not see them, and let the old bitterness, the old

longing rise up within him! And then Annette turned to him and said: "Those two people, Soames; they know

Soames looked then. Into his life, out of his life she had walked like that swaying and erect, remote,

unseizabIe; ever eluding the contact of his soul! He turned abruptly from that receding vision of the past.

But while he stood, grasping her arm, seemingly intent on the head of the procession, he was quivering with

the sense of always missing something, with instinctive regret that he had not got them both.

Slow came the music and the march, till, in silence, the long line wound in through the Park gate. He heard

Annette whisper, "How sad it is and beautiful!" felt the clutch of her hand as she stood up on tiptoe; and the

crowd's emotion gripped him. There it wasthe bier of the Queen, coffin of the Age slow passing! And as it

went by there came a murmuring groan from all the long line of those who watched, a sound such as Soames

had never heard, so unconscious, primitive, deep and wild, that neither he nor any knew whether they had

joined in uttering it. Strange sound, indeed! Tribute of an Age to its own death.... Ah! Ah!.... The hold on life

It moved on with the bier, that travelling groan, as a fire moves on over grass in a thin line; it kept step, and

marched alongside down the dense crowds mile after mile. It was a human sound, and yet inhuman, pushed

out by animal subconsciousness, by intimate knowledge of universal death and change. None of usnone of

It left silence for a littlea very little time, till tongues began, eager to retrieve interest in the show. Soames

lingered just long enough to gratify Annette, then took her out of the Park to lunch at his father's in Park

James had spent the morning gazing out of his bedroom window. The last show he would see, last of so

many! So she was gone! Well, she was getting an old woman. Swithin and he had seen her crowned slim

slip of a girl, not so old as Imogen! She had got very stout of late. Jolyon and he had seen her married to that

German chap, her husbandhe had turned out all right before he died, and left her with that son of his. And

he remembered the many evenings he and his brothers and their cronies had wagged their heads over their

wine and walnuts and that fellow in his salad days. And now he had come to the throne. They said he had

steadied downhe didn't knowcouldn't tell! He'd make the money fly still, he shouldn't wonder. What a

lot of people out there! It didn't seem so very long since he and Swithin stood in the crowd outside

Westminster Abbey when she was crowned, and Swithin had taken him to Cremorne afterwardsracketty

chap, Swithin; no, it didn't seem much longer ago than Jubilee Year, when he had joined with Roger in

Jolyon, Swithin, Roger all gone, and he would be ninety in August! And there was Soames married again to a

French girl. The French were a queer lot, but they made good mothers, he had heard. Things changed! They

said this German Emperor was here for the funeral, his telegram to old Kruger had been in shocking taste. He

should not be surprised if that chap made trouble some day. Change! H'm! Well, they must look after

themselves when he was gone: he didn't know where he'd be! And now Emily had asked Dartie to lunch, with

Winifred and Imogen, to meet Soames' wifeshe was always doing something. And there was Irene living

'My brother Jolyon,' he thought, 'what would he have said to it all?' And somehow the utter impossibility of

knowing what his elder brother, once so looked up to, would have said, so worried James that he got up from

'She was a pretty thing, too,' he thought; 'I was fond of her. Perhaps Soames didn't suit herI don't knowI

can't tell. We never had any trouble with our wives.' Women had changed everything had changed! And now

the Queen was deadwell, there it was! A movement in the crowd brought him to a standstill at the window,

his nose touching the pane and whitening from the chill of it. They had got her as far as Hyde Park

Cornerthey were passing now! Why didn't Emily come up here where she could see, instead of fussing

about lunch. He missed her at that momentmissed her! Through the bare branches of the planetrees he

could just see the procession, could see the hats coming off the people's headsa lot of them would catch

"There you are!" muttered James; "why didn't you come before? You might have missed it!"

"There's no noise," returned Emily; "what are you thinking of? they wouldn't cheer."

No sound came through those double panes; what James heard was the groaning in his own heart at sight of

"Don't you ever tell me where I'm buried," he said suddenly. "I shan't want to know." And he turned from the

window. There she went, the old Queen; she'd had a lot of anxietyshe'd be glad to be out of it, he should

"There'll be just time to brush your head," she said, "before they come. You must look your best, James."

The meeting with his new daughterinlaw took place in the diningroom. James was seated by the fire

when she was brought in. He placed, his hands on the arms of the chair and slowly raised himself. Stooping

and immaculate in his frockcoat, thin as a line in Euclid, he received Annette's hand in his; and the anxious

eyes of his furrowed face, which had lost its colour now, doubted above her. A little warmth came into them

"How are you?" he said. "You've been to see the Queen, I suppose? Did you have a good crossing?"

Gazing at him, so old, thin, white, and spotless, Annette murmured something in French which James did not

"Yes, yes," he said, "you want your lunch, I expect. Soames, ring the bell; we won't wait for that chap

Dartie." But just then they arrived. Dartie had refused to go out of his way to see 'the old girl.' With an early

cocktail beside him, he had taken a 'squint' from the smokingroom of the Iseeum, so that Winifred and

Imogen had been obliged to come back from the Park to fetch him thence. His brown eyes rested on Annette

with a stare of almost startled satisfaction. The second beauty that fellow Soames had picked up! What

women could see in him! Well, she would play him the same trick as the other, no doubt; but in the meantime

he was a lucky devil! And he brushed up his moustache, having in nine months of Green Street domesticity

regained almost all his flesh and his assurance. Despite the comfortable efforts of Emily, Winifred's

composure, Imogen's enquiring friendliness, Dartie's showingoff, and James' solicitude about her food, it

was not, Soames felt, a successful lunch for his bride. He took her away very soon.

"Your sister is veree amiable, and the girl is pretty. Your father is veree old. I think your mother has trouble

Soames nodded at the shrewdness, the clear hard judgment in his young wife; but it disquieted him a little.

The thought may have just flashed through him, too: 'When I'm eighty she'll be fiftyfive, having trouble

"There's just one other house of my relations I must take you to," he said; "you'll find it funny, but we must

In this way he prepared her for Timothy's. But Timothy's was different. They were delighted to see dear

"You are so pretty, my dear; almost too young and pretty for dear Soames, aren't you? But he's very attentive

and carefulsuch a good hush...." Aunt Juley checked herself, and placed her lips just under each of

Annette's eyesshe afterwards described them to Francie, who dropped in, as: "Cornflowerblue, so pretty,

I quite wanted to kiss them. I must say dear Soames is a perfect connoisseur. In her French way, and not so

very French either, I think she's as prettythough not so distinguished, not so alluringas Irene. Because

she was alluring, wasn't she? with that white skin and those dark eyes, and that hair, couleur de what was

"Of course, dead leavesso strange. I remember when I was a girl, before we came to London, we had a

foxhound puppyto 'walk' it was called then; it had a tan top to its head and a white chest, and beautiful

"Oh!" replied Aunt Juley, rather flustered, "it was so alluring, and her eyes and hair, you know...." She was

silent, as if surprised in some indelicacy. "Feuille morte," she added suddenly; "Hesterdo remember

Considerable debate took place between the two sisters whether Timothy should or should not be summoned

"But it's no trouble, only of course Annette's being French might upset him a little. He was so scared about

Fashoda. I think perhaps we had better not run the risk, Hester. It's nice to have her all to ourselves, isn't it?

Soames, disquieted, awaited the reply. It came, sensible, composed: "Oh! I know London. I have visited

He had never ventured to speak to her on the subject of the restaurant. The French had different notions about

gentility, and to shrink from connection with it might seem to her ridiculous; he had waited to be married

"Yes," murmured Aunt Juley, "your Uncle Roger had some houses there once; he was always having to turn

"Of course," said Aunt Juley, "you will be going down there soon to settle in. We are all so looking forward

"I shouldn't mention Soho if I were you," he said in the cab. "It's rather a shady part of London; and you're

altogether above that restaurant business now; I mean," he added, "I want you to know nice people, and the

'H'm!' thought Soames, 'that's meant for me!' and he looked at her hard. 'She's got good business instincts,' he

"Look here, Annette! it's very simple, only it wants understanding. Our professional and leisured classes still

think themselves a cut above our business classes, except of course the very rich. It may be stupid, but there it

is, you see. It isn't advisable in England to let people know that you ran a restaurant or kept a shop or were in

any kind of trade. It may have been extremely creditable, but it puts a sort of label on you; you don't have

"Oh!" murmured Soames, at once relieved and taken aback. "Of course, class is everything, really."

'That's all right,' thought Soames, watching her lips, 'only she's pretty cynical.' His knowledge of French was

not yet such as to make him grieve that she had not said 'tu.' He slipped his arm round her, and murmured

"Oh, non!" she said. "Oh, non! ne parlez pas Francais, Soames. What is that old lady, your aunt, looking

Soames bit his lip. "God knows!" he said; "she's always saying something;" but he knew better than God.

The war dragged on. Nicholas had been heard to say that it would cost three hundred millions if it cost a

penny before they'd done with it! The incometax was seriously threatened. Still, there would be South

Africa for their money, once for all. And though the possessive instinct felt badly shaken at three o'clock in

the morning, it recovered by breakfasttime with the recollection that one gets nothing in this world without

paying for it. So, on the whole, people went about their business much as if there were no war, no

concentration camps, no slippery de Wet, no feeling on the Continent, no anything unpleasant. Indeed, the

attitude of the nation was typified by Timothy's map, whose animation was suspendedfor Timothy no

longer moved the flags, and they could not move themselves, not even backwards and forwards as they

Suspended animation went further; it invaded Forsyte 'Change, and produced a general uncertainty as to what

was going to happen next. The announcement in the marriage column of The Times, 'Jolyon Forsyte to Irene,

only daughter of the late Professor Heron,' had occasioned doubt whether Irene had been justly described.

And yet, on the whole, relief was felt that she had not been entered as 'Irene, late the wife,' or 'the divorced

wife,' 'of Soames Forsyte.' Altogether, there had been a kind of sublimity from the first about the way the

family had taken that 'affair.' As James had phrased it, 'There it was!' No use to fuss! Nothing to be had out of

But what would happen now that both Soames and Jolyon were married again? That was very intriguing.

George was known to have laid Eustace six to four on a little Jolyon before a little Soames. George was so

droll! It was rumoured, too, that he and Dartie had a bet as to whether James would attain the age of ninety,

Early in May, Winifred came round to say that Val had been wounded in the leg by a spent bullet, and was to

be discharged. His wife was nursing him. He would have a little limpnothing to speak of. He wanted his

grandfather to buy him a farm out there where he could breed horses. Her father was giving Holly eight

hundred a year, so they could be quite comfortable, because his grandfather would give Val five, he had said;

but as to the farm, he didn't knowcouldn't tell: he didn't want Val to go throwing away his money.

Aunt Hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise, because if he didn't buy a farm it couldn't

Aunt Juley thought that horses were very uncertain, had not Montague found them so?

Aunt Juley was sure that dear Val was very clever. "I always remember," she added, "how he gave his bad

penny to a beggar. His dear grandfather was so pleased. He thought it showed such presence of mind. I

Aunt Hester chimed in: Did not Winifred think that it was much better for the young people to be secure and

"Well," said Winifred, "if they were in London, perhaps; in London it's amusing to do nothing. But out there,

Aunt Hester thought that it would be nice for him to work, if he were quite sure not to lose by it. It was not as

if they had no money. Timothy, of course, had done so well by retiring. Aunt Juley wanted to know what

Winifred did not tell her, for Montague had merely remarked: "Wait till the old man dies."

Aunt Juley drew in her breath. "But," she said, "they were only married in March!"

"Well," said Winifred, "I'm glad. I was sorry for Jolyon losing his boy. It might have been Val."

Aunt Juley seemed to go into a sort of dream. "I wonder," she murmured, "what dear Soames will think? He

Such a lucky month! But she did wish it could be sooner. It was a long time for James to wait, at his age!

To wait! They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it themselves. Indeed, it was their great distraction.

To wait! For The Times to read; for one or other of their nieces or nephews to come in and cheer them up; for

news of Nicholas' health; for that decision of Christopher's about going on the stage; for information

concerning the mine of Mrs. MacAnder's nephew; for the doctor to come about Hester's inclination to wake

up early in the morning; for books from the library which were always out; for Timothy to have a cold; for a

nice quiet warm day, not too hot, when they could take a turn in Kensington Gardens. To wait, one on each

side of the hearth in the drawingroom, for the clock between them to strike; their thin, veined, knuckled

hands plying knittingneedles and crochethooks, their hair ordered to stoplike Canute's waves from

any further advance in colour. To wait in their black silks or satins for the Court to say that Hester might wear

her dark green, and Juley her darker maroon. To wait, slowly turning over and over, in their old minds the

little joys and sorrows, events and expectancies, of their little family world, as cows chew patient cuds in a

familiar field. And this new event was so well worth waiting for. Soames had always been their pet, with his

tendency to give them pictures, and his almost weekly visits which they missed so much, and his need for

their sympathy evoked by the wreck of his first marriage. This new eventthe birth of an heir to Soames

was so important for him, and for his dear father, too, that James might not have to die without some

certainty about things. James did so dislike uncertainty; and with Montague, of course, he could not feel

really satisfied to leave no grand children but the young Darties. After all, one's own name did count! And

as James' ninetieth birthday neared they wondered what precautions he was taking. He would be the frst of

the Forsytes to reach that age, and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on to life. That was so important,

they felt, at their ages eighty seven and eightyfive; though they did not want to think of themselves when

they had Timothy, who was not yet eightytwo, to think of. There was, of course, a better world. 'In my

Father's house are many mansions' was one of Aunt Juley's favourite sayings it always comforted her, with

its suggestion of house property, which had made the fortune of dear Roger. The Bible was, indeed, a great

resource, and on very fine Sundays there was church in the morning; and sometimes Juley would steal into

Timothy's study when she was sure he was out, and just put an open New Testament casually among the

books on his little tablehe was a great reader, of course, having been a publisher. But she had noticed that

Timothy was always cross at dinner afterwards. And Smither had told her more than once that she had picked

books off the floor in doing the room. Still, with all that, they did feel that heaven could not be quite so cosy

as the rooms in which they and Timothy had been waiting so long. Aunt Hester, especially, could not bear the

thought of the exertion. Any change, or rather the thought of a changefor there never was anyalways

upset her very much. Aunt Juley, who had more spirit, sometimes thought it would be quite exciting; she had

so enjoyed that visit to Brighton the year dear Susan died. But then Brighton one knew was nice, and it was

so difficult to tell what heaven would be like, so on the whole she was more than content to wait.

On the morning of James' birthday, August the 5th, they felt extraordinary animation, and little notes passed

between them by the hand of Smither while they were having breakfast in their beds. Smither must go round

and take their love and little presents and find out how Mr. James was, and whether he had passed a good

night with all the excitement. And on the way back would Smither call in at Green Streetit was a little out

of her way, but she could take the bus up Bond Street afterwards; it would be a nice little change for

All this Smither didan undeniable servant trained many years ago under Aunt Ann to a perfection not now

procurable. Mr. James, so Mrs. James said, had passed an excellent night, he sent his love; Mrs. James had

said he was very funny and had complained that he didn't know what all the fuss was about. Oh! and Mrs.

Aunts Juley and Hester, rather hurt that their presents had not received special mentionthey forgot every

year that James could not bear to receive presents, 'throwing away their money on him,' as he always called

itwere 'delighted'; it showed that James was in good spirits, and that was so important for him. And they

began to wait for Winifred. She came at four, bringing Imogen, and Maud, just back from school, and 'getting

such a pretty girl, too,' so that it was extremely difficult to ask for news about Annette. Aunt Juley, however,

summoned courage to enquire whether Winifred had heard anything, and if Soames was anxious.

"Uncle Soames is always anxious, Auntie," interrupted Imogen; "he can't be happy now he's got it."

The words struck familiarly on Aunt Juley's ears. Ah! yes; that funny drawing of George's, which had not

been shown them! But what did Imogen mean? That her uncle always wanted more than he could have? It

"Imagine! Annette's only two years older than me; it must be awful for her, married to Uncle Soames."

"My dear," she said, "you don't know what you're talking about. Your Uncle Soames is a match for anybody.

He's a very clever man, and goodlooking and wealthy, and most considerate and careful, and not at all old,

Imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the 'old dears,' only smiled.

"If you go on like this," replied Aunt Juley, still very much upset, "you won't marry anybody. We'd better not

"I've told Smither to get up half a bottle of the sweet champagne, Hester. I think we ought to drink dear

James' health, andand the health of Soames' wife; only, let's keep that quite secret. I'll Just say like this,

"It's more likely to upset us," said Aunt Nester. "But we must, I suppose; for such an occasion."

"Yes," said Aunt Juley rapturously, "it is an occasion! Only fancy if he has a dear little boy, to carry the

family on! I do feel it so important, now that Irene has had a son. Winifred says George is calling Jolyon 'The

ThreeDecker,' because of his three families, you know! George is droll. And fancy! Irene is living after all

in the house Soames had built for them both. It does seem hard on dear Soames; and he's always been so

That night in bed, excited and a little flushed still by her glass of wine and the secrecy of the second toast, she

lay with her prayerbook opened flat, and her eyes fixed on a ceiling yellowed by the light from her

readinglamp. Young things! It was so nice for them all! And she would be so happy if she could see dear

Soames happy. But, of course, he must be now, in spite of what Imogen had said. He would have all that he

wanted: property, and wife, and children! And he would live to a green old age, like his dear father, and

forget all about Irene and that dreadful case. If only she herself could be here to buy his children their first

rockinghorse! Smither should choose it for her at the stores, nice and dappled. Ah! how Roger used to rock

her until she fell off! Oh dear! that was a long time ago! It was! 'In my Father's house are many

mansions'A little scrattling noise caught her ear 'but no mice!' she thought mechanically. The noise

increased. There! it was a mouse! How naughty of Smither to say there wasn't! It would be eating through the

wainscot before they knew where they were, and they would have to have the builders in. They were such

destructive things! And she lay, with her eyes just moving, following in her mind that little scrattling sound,

Soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on the path above the river, turned round and

walked back to the garden door, without having realised that he had moved. The sound of wheels crunching

the drive convinced him that time had passed, and the doctor gone. What, exactly, had he said?

"This is the position, Mr. Forsyte. I can make pretty certain of her life if I operate, but the baby will be born

dead. If I don't operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it's a great risk for the mothera great

risk. In either case I don't think she can ever have another child. In her state she obviously can't decide for

herself, and we can't wait for her mother. It's for you to make the decision, while I'm getting what's necessary.

The decision! What a decision! No time to get a specialist down! No time for anything!

The sound of wheels died away, but Soames still stood intent; then, suddenly covering his ears, he walked

back to the river. To come before its time like this, with no chance to foresee anything, not even to get her

mother here! It was for her mother to make that decision, and she couldn't arrive from Paris till tonight! If

only he could have understood the doctor's jargon, the medical niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the

chances properly; but they were Greek to himlike a legal problem to a layman. And yet he must decide! He

brought his hand away from his brow wet, though the air was chilly. These sounds which came from her

room! To go back there would only make it more difficult. He must be calm, clear. On the one hand life,

nearly certain, of his young wife, death quite certain, of his child; andno more children afterwards! On the

other, death perhaps of his wife, nearly certain life for the child; andno more children afterwards! Which to

choose?.... It had rained this last fortnightthe river was very full, and in the water, collected round the little

houseboat moored by his landingstage, were many leaves from the woods above, brought off by a frost.

Leaves fell, lives drifted downDeath! To decide about death! And no one to give him a hand. Life lost was

lost for good. Let nothing go that you could keep; for, if it went, you couldn't get it back. It left you bare, like

those trees when they lost their leaves; barer and barer until you, too, withered and came down. And, by a

queer somersault of thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying up there behind that windowpane on which

the sun was shining, but Irene lying in their bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it might conceivably have

been her fate to lie, sixteen years ago. Would he have hesitated then? Not a moment! Operate, operate! Make

certain of her life! No decisiona mere instinctive cry for help, in spite of his know ledge, even then, that

she did not love him! But this! Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling for Annette! Many times

these last months, especially since she had been growing fright ened, he had wondered. She had a will of her

own, was selfish in her French way. And yetso pretty! What would she wishto take the risk. 'I know she

wants the child,' he thought. 'If it's born dead, and no more chance afterwardsit'll upset her terribly. No

more chance! All for nothing! Married life with her for years and years without a child. Nothing to steady

her! She's too young. Nothing to look forward to, for herfor me! For me!' He struck his hands against his

chest! Why couldn't he think without bringing himself inget out of himself and see what he ought to do?

The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it had come in contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself!

Impossible! Out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless space! The very idea was ghastly, futile! And

touching there the bedrock of reality, the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames rested for a moment. When one

He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back. He must decide! If against the operation

and she died, how face her mother and the doctor afterwards? How face his own conscience? It was his child

that she was having. If for the operationthen he condemned them both to childlessness. And for what else

had he married her but to have a lawful heir? And his fatherat death's door, waiting for the news! 'It's

cruel!' he thought; 'I ought never to have such a thing to settle! It's cruel!' He turned towards the house. Some

deep, simple way of deciding! He took out a coin, and put it back. If he spun it, he knew he would not abide

by what came up! He went into the diningroom, furthest away from that room whence the sounds issued.

The doctor had said there was a chance. In here that chance seemed greater; the river did not flow, nor the

leaves fall. A fire was burning. Soames unlocked the tantalus. He hardly ever touched spirits, but nowhe

poured himself out some whisky and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. 'That fellow Jolyon,' he

thought; 'he had children already. He has the woman I really loved; and now a son by her! And II'm asked

He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the doctor's carriage, and went out to him. He

The doctor looked at him very gravely. "It's on your shoulders," he said; "with my own wife, I couldn't."

Soames continued to stand, listening. 'By this time tomorrow,' he thought, 'I may have her death on my

hands.' No! it was unfair monstrous, to put it that way! Sullenness dropped on him again, and he went up

to the gallery. He stood at the window. The wind was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy

ragged white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through the screen of goldening trees; the woods all

rich with colour, glowing, burnishedan early autumn. If it were his own life, would he be taking that risk?

'But she'd take the risk of losing me,' he thought, 'sooner than lose her child! She doesn't really love me!'

What could one expecta girl and French? The one thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage

and their futures, was a child! 'I've been through a lot for this,' he thought, 'I'll hold onhold on. There's a

chance of keeping botha chance!' One kept till things were takenone naturally kept! He began walking

round the gallery. He had made one purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he halted

before ita girl with dull gold hair which looked like filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she

was holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment he could just feel the extraordinary nature of the

bargain he had madeadmire the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl's figure, the absorbed

expression on her face, the dull gold filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster. Collecting

pictures; growing richer, richer! What use, if....! He turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the

window. Some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the dovecot, and were stretching their

wings in the wind. In the clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. They flew far, making a

flungup hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her

hand; they knew she was matteroffact. A choking sensation came into his throat. She would notcould

nod die! She was tootoo sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in spite of her fair

It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and stood listening. Not a sound! A milky

twilight crept about the stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound caught his ear.

Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and his heart stood still. What was it? Death? The shape of

Death coming from her door? No! only a maid without cap or apron. She came to the foot of his flight of

He dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on the doctor in the dim passage. The man

"The utmost care of both," he hearts the doctor say, "and we shall do. When does the mother come?"

"Not now," said Soames; "before you go. I'll have dinner sent up to you." And he went downstairs.

Relief unspeakable, and yeta daughter! It seemed to him unfair. To have taken that riskto have been

through this agonyand what agony!for a daughter! He stood before the blazing fire of wood logs in the

hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust himself. 'My father!' he thought. A bitter disappointment,

no disguising it! One never got all one wanted in this life! And there was no otherat least, if there was, it

He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he couldn't feel anything after these last hours,

but he felt this. Halfpast seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame's train, if she had caught it, came

in at eightfortyhe would meet that, and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner mechanically, and

"I won't go in," said Soames with relief. "My father's dying; I have togo up. Is it all right?"

The doctor's face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. 'If they were all as unemotional' he might have

"Goodnight!" said Soames abruptly, and turned away. He put on his fur coat. Death! It was a chilly

business. He smoked a cigarette in the carriageone of his rare cigarettes. The night was windy and flew on

black wings; the carriage lights had to search out the way. His father! That old, old man! A comfortless

The London train came in just as he reached the station, and Madame Lamotte, substantial, darkclothed,

Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing, climbed into the brougham.

"My father's dying," said Soames between his teeth. "I'm going up. Give my love to Annette."

A simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the air and the people who saw him were

filtered, as it were, the room he had not left since the middle of Septemberand James was in deep waters.

A little cold, passing his little strength and flying quickly to his lungs. "He mustn't catch cold," the doctor had

declared, and he had gone and caught it. When he first felt it in his throat he had said to his nursefor he had

one now"There, I knew how it would be, airing the room like that!" For a whole day he was highly

nervous about himself and went in advance of all precautions and remedies; drawing every breath with

extreme care and having his temperature taken every hour. Emily was not alarmed.

But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: "He won't have his temperature taken."

Emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said softly, "How do you feel, James?" holding

Then she was alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked terribly frail, white, with faint red

discolorations. She had 'had trouble' with him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been James for nearly

fifty years; she couldn't remember or imagine life without JamesJames, behind all his fussiness, his

pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and generous to them all!

All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was in his eyes a noticing of everything done for

him, a look on his face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope. His very stillness, the way

he conserved every little scrap of energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. It touched her

deeply; and though her face was composed and comfortable in the sickroom, tears ran down her cheeks

About teatime on the third dayshe had just changed her dress, keeping her appearance so as not to alarm

him, because he noticed everythingshe saw a difference. 'It's no use; I'm tired,' was written plainly across

"Yes, James," she said comfortably; "all rightat once." And she kissed his forehead. A tear dropped there,

and as she wiped it off she saw that his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and without hope now, she sent

When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was still as a grave. Warmson's broad face

Warmson's lips twitched. "He's asking for you, sir;" and suddenly he blew his nose. "It's a long time, sir," he

Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs. This house, where he had been born and

sheltered, had never seemed to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last pilgrimage to his father's

room. It was not his taste; but in its own sub stantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and security.

He paused outside the door. No sound came from within. He turned the handle softly and was in the room

before he was perceived. The light was shaded. His mother and Winifred were sitting on the far side of the

bed; the nurse was moving away from the near side where was an empty chair. 'For me!' thought Soames. As

he moved from the door his mother and sister rose, but he signed with his hand and they sat down again. He

went up to the chair and stood looking at his father. James' breathing was as if strangled; his eyes were

closed. And in Soames, looking on his father so worn and white and wasted, listening to his strangled

breathing, there rose a passionate vehemence of anger against Nature, cruel, inexorable Nature, kneeling on

the chest of that wisp of a body, slowly pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the being who was

dearest to him in the world. His father, of all men, had lived a careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was

his rewardto have life slowly, painfully squeezed out of him! And, without knowing that he spoke, he said:

He saw his mother cover her eyes and Winifred bow her face towards the bed. Women! They put up with

things so much. better than men. He took a step nearer to his father. For three days James had not been

shaved, and his lips and chin were covered with hair, hardly more snowy than his forehead. It softened his

face, gave it a queer look already not of this world. His eyes opened. Soames went quite close and bent over.

"Umwhatwhat news? They never tell...." the voice died, and a flood of emotion made Soames' face

work so that he could not speak. Tell him?yes. But what? He made a great effort, got his lips together, and

"Ah!" It was the queerest sound, ugly, relieved, pitiful, triumphantlike the noise a baby makes getting what

it wants. The eyes closed, and that strangled sound of breathing began again. Soames recoiled to the chair and

stonily sat down. The lie he had told, based, as it were, on some deep, temperamental instinct that after death

James would not know the truth, had taken away all power of feeling for the moment. His arm brushed

against something. It was his father's naked foot. In the struggle to breathe he had pushed it out from under

the clothes. Soames took it in his hand, a cold foot, light and thin, white, very cold. What use to put it back, to

wrap up that which must be colder soon! He warmed it mechanically with his hand, listening to his father's

laboured breathing; while the power of feeling rose again within him. A little sob, quickly smothered, came

from Winifred, but his mother sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on James. Soames signed to the nurse.

"Only an injection; and he can't stand it. The doctor said, while he was fighting...."

"He's not fighting," whispered Soames, "he's being slowly smothered. It's awful."

James stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying. Soames rose and bent over him. James feebly

Soames pulled. He thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of anger passed over James' face. The nurse

plumped the pillows. Soames laid the hands down, and bending over kissed his father's forehead. As he was

raising himself again, James' eyes bent on him a look which seemed to come from the very depths of what

was left within. 'I'm done, my boy,' it seemed to say, 'take care of them, take care of yourself; take careI

Behind him the nurse did he knew, not what, for his father made a tiny movement of repulsion as if resenting

that interference; and almost at once his breathing eased away, became quiet; he lay very still. The strained

expression on his face passed, a curious white tranquillity took its place. His eyelids quivered, rested; the

whole face rested; at ease. Only by the faint puffing of his lips could they tell that he was breathing. Soames

sank back on his chair, and fell to cherishing the foot again. He heard the nurse quietly crying over there by

the fire; curious that she, a stranger, should be the only one of them who cried! He heard the quiet lick and

flutter of the fire flames. One more old Forsyte going to his long restwonderful, they were!wonderful

how he had held on! His mother and Winifred were leaning forward, hanging on the sight of James' lips. But

Soames bent sideways over the feet, warming them both; they gave him comfort, colder and colder though

they grew. Suddenly he started up; a sound, a dreadful sound such as he had never heard, was coming from

his father's lips, as if an outraged heart had broken with a long moan. What a strong heart, to have uttered that

farewell! It ceased. Soaines looked into the face. No motion; no breath! Dead! He kissed the brow, turned

round and went out of the room. He ran upstairs to the bedroom, his old bedroom, still kept for him; flung

himself face down on the bed, and broke into sobs which he stilled with the pillow....

A little later he went downstairs and passed into the room. James lay alone, wonderfully calm, free from

shadow and anxiety, with the gravity on his ravaged face which underlies great age, the worn fine gravity of

Soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room with windows thrown open to the London

He had much to see to, that night and all next day. A telegram at breakfast reassured him about Annette, and

he only caught the last train back to Reading, with Emily's kiss on his forehead and in his ears her words:

He reached his house at midnight. The weather had changed, was mild again, as though, having finished its

work and sent a Forsyte to his last account, it could relax. A second telegram, received at dinnertime, had

confirmed the good news of Annette, and, instead of going in, Soames passed down through the garden in the

moonlight to his houseboat. He could sleep there quite well. Bitterly tired, he lay down on the sofa in his fur

coat and fell asleep. He woke soon after dawn and went on deck. He stood against the rail, looking west

where the river swept round in a wide curve under the woods. In Soames, appreciation of natural beauty was

curiously like that of his farmer ancestors, a sense of grievance if it wasn't there, sharpened, no doubt, and

civilised, by his researches among landscape painting. But dawn has power to fertilise the most

matteroffact vision, and he was stirred. It was another world from the river he knew, under that remote

cool light; a world into which man had not entered, an unreal world, like some strange shore sighted by

discovery. Its colour was not the colour of convention, was hardly colour at all; its shapes were brooding yet

distinct; its silence stunning; it had no scent. Why it should move him he could not tell, unless it were that he

felt so alone in it, bare of all relationship and all possessions. Into such a world his father might be voyaging,

for all resemblance it had to the world he had left. And Soames took refuge from it in wondering what painter

could have done it justice. The whitegrey water was likelike the belly of a fish! Was it possible that this

world on which he looked was all private property, except the waterand even that was tapped! No tree, no

shrub, not a blade of grass, not a bird or beast, not even a fish that was not owned. And once on a time all this

was jungle and marsh and water, and weird creatures roamed and sported without human cognizance to give

them names; rotting luxuriance had rioted where those tall, care fully planted woods came down to the

water, and marshmisted reeds on that far side had covered all the pasture. Well! they had got it under,

kennelled it all up, labelled it, and stowed it in lawyers' offices. And a good thing too! But once in a way, as

now, the ghost of the past came out to haunt and brood and whisper to any human who chanced to be awake:

'Out of my unowned loneliness you all came, into it some day you will all return.'

And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that worldnew to him and so very old: the world,

unowned, visiting the scene of its pastwent down and made himself tea on a spiritlamp. When he had

"On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James Forsyte, in his ninetyfirst year. Funeral at noon on

"On the 20th instant at The Shelter; Mapledurham, Annette, wife of Soames Forsyte, of a daughter." And

It was eight o'clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went across to the house. Bushes across the river

stood round and brightcoloured out of a milky haze; the woodsmoke went up blue and straight; and his

He stole up to his dressingroom, bathed, shaved, put on fresh linen and dark clothes.

She looked at his clothes, said, "Don't tell me!" and pressed his hand. "Annette is prettee well. But the doctor

say she can never have no more children. You knew that?" Soames nodded. "It's a pity. Mais la petite est

Soames got away from her as soon as he could. She offended him solid, matteroffact, quick,

clearFrench. He could not bear her vowels, her 'r's'; he resented the way she had looked at him, as if it

were his fault that Annette could never bear him a son! His fault! He even resented her cheap adoration of the

One would have thought he must have rushed up at the first moment. On the contrary, he had a sort of

physical shrinking from it fastidious possessor that he was. He was afraid of what Annette was thinking of

him, author of her agonies, afraid of the look of the baby, afraid of showing his disappointment with the

He spent an hour walking up and down the drawingroom before he could screw his courage up to mount the

"Ah! At last you come! Elle vous attend!" She passed him, and Soames went in with his noiseless step, his

Annette was very pale and very pretty lying there. The baby was hidden away somewhere; he could not see it.

"Here you are then, Soames," she said. "I am not so bad now. But I suffered terribly, terribly. I am glad I

Soames stood silent, stroking her hand; words of endearment, of sympathy, absolutely would not come; the

thought passed through him: 'An English girl wouldn't have said that!' At this moment he knew with certainty

that he would never be near to her in spirit and in truth, nor she to him. He had collected herthat was all!

And Jolyon's words came rushing into his mind: "I should imagine you will be glad to have your neck out of

He passed round the foot of the bed to the other side and stood staring. For the first moment what he saw was

much what he had expected to seea baby. But as he stared and the baby breathed and made little sleeping

movements with its tiny features, it seemed to assume an individual shape, grew to be like a picture, a thing

he would know again; not repulsive, strangely budlike and touching. It had dark hair. He touched it with his

finger, he wanted to see its eyes. They opened, they were darkwhether blue or brown he could not tell. The

eyes winked, stared, they had a sort of sleepy depth in them. And suddenly his heart felt queer, warm, as if