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them he stopped dead, and raised his hat.

       The smile never left Soames' face; he also took off his hat.

       Bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard physical exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and Soames' smile seemed to say: "You've had a trying time, my friend.... What are you doing in the Park?" he asked. "We thought you despised such frivolity!"

       Bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to Irene: "I've been round to your place; I hoped I should find you in." Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her

       answer, and took a resolution.

       "We're just going in," he said to Bosinney; "you'd better come back to dinner with us." Into that invitation he put a strange bravado, a stranger pathos: "You, can't deceive me," his look and voice seemed saying, "but see--I trust you--I'm not afraid of you!"

       They started back to Montpellier Square together, Irene between them. In the crowded streets Soames went on in front. He did not listen to their conversation; the strange resolution of trustfulness he had taken seemed to animate even his secret conduct. Like a gambler, he said to himself: 'It's a card I dare not throw away--I must play it for what it's worth. I have not too many chances.'

       He dressed slowly, heard her leave her room and go downstairs, and, for full five minutes after, dawdled about in his dressing-room. Then he went down, purposely shutting the door loudly to show that he was coming. He found them standing by the hearth, perhaps talking, perhaps not; he could not say.

       He played his part out in the farce, the long evening through--his manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been before; and when at last Bosinney went, he said: "You must come again soon; Irene likes to have you to talk about the house!" Again his voice had the strange bravado and the stranger pathos; but his hand was cold as ice.

       Loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, turned away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to say good-night--away from the sight of her golden head shining so under the light, of her smiling mournful lips; away from the sight of Bosinney's eyes looking at her, so like a dog's looking at its master.

       And he went to bed with the certainty that Bosinney was in love with his wife.

       The summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every opened window came in but hotter air. For long hours he lay listening to her breathing.

       She could sleep, but he must lie awake. And, lying awake, he hardened himself to play the part of the serene and trusting husband. In the small hours he slipped out of bed, and passing into his dressing-room, leaned by the open window.

       He could hardly breathe.

       A night four years ago came back to him--the night but one before his marriage; as hot and stifling as this.

       He remembered how he had lain in a long cane chair in the window of his sitting-room off Victoria Street. Down below in a side street a man had banged at a door, a woman had cried out; he remembered, as though it were now, the sound of the scuffle, the slam of the door, the dead silence that followed. And then the early water-cart, cleansing the reek of the streets, had approached through the strange-seeming, useless lamplight; he seemed to hear again its rumble, nearer and nearer, till it passed and slowly died away.

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       He leaned far out of the dressing-room window over the little court below, and saw the first light spread. The outlines of dark walls and roofs were blurred for a moment, then came out sharper than before.

       He remembered how that other night he had watched the lamps paling all the length of Victoria Street; how he had hurried on his clothes and gone down into the street, down past houses and squares, to the street where she was staying, and there had stood and looked at the front of the little house, as still and grey as the face of a dead man.

       And suddenly it shot through his mind; like a sick man's fancy: What's he doing?--that fellow who haunts me, who was here this evening, who's in love with my wife--prowling out there, perhaps, looking for her as I know he was looking for her this afternoon; watching my house now, for all I can tell!

       He stole across the landing to the front of the house, stealthily drew aside a blind, and raised a window.

       The grey light clung about the trees of the square, as though Night, like a great downy moth, had brushed them with her wings. The lamps were still alight, all pale, but not a soul stirred--no living thing in sight.

       Yet suddenly, very faint, far off in the deathly stillness, he heard a cry writhing, like the voice of some wandering soul barred out of

       heaven, and crying for its happiness. There it was again--again! Soames shut the window, shuddering. Then he thought: 'Ah! it's only the peacocks, across the water.'

       CHAPTER XII--JUNE PAYS SOME CALLS

       Jolyon stood in the narrow hall at Broadstairs, inhaling that odour of oilcloth and herrings which permeates all respectable seaside lodging-houses. On a chair--a shiny leather chair, displaying its horsehair through a hole in the top lefthand corner--stood a black despatch case. This he was filling with papers, with the Times, and a bottle of Eau-de Cologne. He had meetings that day of the

       'Globular Gold Concessions' and the 'New Colliery Company, Limited,' to which he was going up, for he never missed a Board; to

       'miss a Board' would be one more piece of evidence that he was growing old, and this his jealous Forsyte spirit could not bear.

       His eyes, as he filled that black despatch case, looked as if at any moment they might blaze up with anger. So gleams the eye of a schoolboy, baited by a ring of his companions; but he controls himself, deterred by the fearful odds against him. And old Jolyon controlled himself, keeping down, with his masterful restraint now slowly wearing out, the irritation fostered in him by the conditions of his life.

       He had received from his son an unpractical letter, in which by rambling generalities the boy seemed trying to get out of answering a plain question. 'I've seen Bosinney,' he said; 'he is not a criminal. The more I see of people the more I am convinced that they are never good or bad--merely comic, or pathetic. You probably don't agree with me!'

       Old Jolyon did not; he considered it cynical to so express oneself; he had not yet reached that point of old age when even Forsytes, bereft of those illusions and principles which they have cherished carefully for practical purposes but never believed in, bereft of all corporeal enjoyment, stricken to the very heart by having nothing left to hope for--break through the barriers of reserve and say things they would never have believed themselves capable of saying.

       Perhaps he did not believe in 'goodness' and 'badness' any more than his son; but as he would have said: He didn't know--couldn't tell; there might be something in it; and why, by an unnecessary expression of disbelief, deprive yourself of possible advantage?

       Accustomed to spend his holidays among the mountains, though (like a true Forsyte) he had never attempted anything too adventurous or too foolhardy, he had been passionately fond of them. And when the wonderful view (mentioned in Baedeker--'fatiguing but repaying')--was disclosed to him after the effort of the climb, he had doubtless felt the existence of some great, dignified principle crowning the chaotic strivings, the petty precipices, and ironic little dark chasms of life. This was as near to religion, perhaps, as his practical spirit had ever gone.

       But it was many years since he had been to the mountains. He had taken June there two seasons running, after his wife died, and had realized bitterly that his walking days were over.

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       To that old mountain--given confidence in a supreme order of things he had long been a stranger.

       He knew himself to be old, yet he felt young; and this troubled him. It troubled and puzzled him, too, to think that he, who had always been so careful, should be father and grandfather to such as seemed born to disaster. He had nothing to say against Jo--who could say anything against the boy, an amiable chap?--but his position was deplorable, and this business of June's nearly as bad. It seemed like a fatality, and a fatality was one of those things no man of his character could either understand or put up with.

      

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