The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

It was long since young Jolyon's escapade--there was danger of a

tradition again arising that people in their position never cross the

hedge to pluck that flower; that one could reckon on having love, like

measles, once in due season, and getting over it comfortably for all

time--as with measles, on a soothing mixture of butter and honey--in the

arms of wedlock.

Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and Mrs. Soames

reached, James was the most affected. He had long forgotten how he had

hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of chestnut hue, round Emily,

in the days of his own courtship. He had long forgotten the small house

in the purlieus of Mayfair, where he had spent the early days of his

married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early days, not the

small house,--a Forsyte never forgot a house--he had afterwards sold it

at a clear profit of four hundred pounds.

He had long forgotten those days, with their hopes and fears and doubts

about the prudence of the match (for Emily, though pretty, had nothing,

and he himself at that time was making a bare thousand a year), and that

strange, irresistible attraction which had drawn him on, till he felt

he must die if he could not marry the girl with the fair hair, looped so

neatly back, the fair arms emerging from a skin-tight bodice, the fair

form decorously shielded by a cage of really stupendous circumference.

James had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through the

river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced the saddest

experience of all--forgetfulness of what it was like to be in love.

Forgotten! Forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he had

forgotten.

And now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his son's

wife; very vague, a shadow dodging among the palpable, straightforward

appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible as a ghost, but carrying

with it, like a ghost, inexplicable terror.

He tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use than

trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of daily in

his evening paper. He simply could not. There could be nothing in it.

It was all their nonsense. She didn't get on with Soames as well as she

might, but she was a good little thing--a good little thing!

Like the not inconsiderable majority of men, James relished a nice

little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact tone, licking

his lips, "Yes, yes--she and young Dyson; they tell me they're living at

Monte Carlo!"