The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Irene was in front; that young fellow--what had they nicknamed him--'The

Buccaneer?' looked precious hangdog there behind her; had got a flea in

his ear, he shouldn't wonder. Serve him right, taking her down all that

way to look at the house! The proper place to look at a house from was

the lawn.

They saw him. He extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to

encourage them. But they had stopped. What were they standing there for,

talking--talking? They came on again. She had been, giving him a rub, he

had not the least doubt of it, and no wonder, over a house like that--a

great ugly thing, not the sort of house he was accustomed to.

He looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable stare. That

young man looked very queer!

"You'll never make anything of this!" he said tartly, pointing at the

mansion;--"too newfangled!"

Bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and Swithin afterwards

described him to Aunt Hester as "an extravagant sort of fellow very odd

way of looking at you--a bumpy beggar!"

What gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology he did not state;

possibly Bosinney's, prominent forehead and cheekbones and chin, or

something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with Swithin's conception

of the calm satiety that should characterize the perfect gentleman.

He brightened up at the mention of tea. He had a contempt for tea--his

brother Jolyon had been in tea; made a lot of money by it--but he was

so thirsty, and had such a taste in his mouth, that he was prepared to

drink anything. He longed to inform Irene of the taste in his mouth--she

was so sympathetic--but it would not be a distinguished thing to do; he

rolled his tongue round, and faintly smacked it against his palate.

In a far corner of the tent Adolf was bending his cat-like moustaches

over a kettle. He left it at once to draw the cork of a pint-bottle of

champagne. Swithin smiled, and, nodding at Bosinney, said: "Why, you're

quite a Monte Cristo!" This celebrated novel--one of the half-dozen he

had read--had produced an extraordinary impression on his mind.

Taking his glass from the table, he held it away from him to scrutinize

the colour; thirsty as he was, it was not likely that he was going to

drink trash! Then, placing it to his lips, he took a sip.

"A very nice wine," he said at last, passing it before his nose; "not

the equal of my Heidsieck!"

It was at this moment that the idea came to him which he afterwards

imparted at Timothy's in this nutshell: "I shouldn't wonder a bit if

that architect chap were sweet upon Mrs. Soames!"