The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

She passed, dancing with other men, her dress, iris-coloured, floating

away from her feet. She danced well; he was tired of hearing women say

with an acid smile: "How beautifully your wife dances, Mr. Forsyte--it's

quite a pleasure to watch her!" Tired of answering them with his

sidelong glance: "You think so?"

A young couple close by flirted a fan by turns, making an unpleasant

draught. Francie and one of her lovers stood near. They were talking of

love.

He heard Roger's voice behind, giving an order about supper to a

servant. Everything was very second-class! He wished that he had not

come! He had asked Irene whether she wanted him; she had answered with

that maddening smile of hers "Oh, no!"

Why had he come? For the last quarter of an hour he had not even seen

her. Here was George advancing with his Quilpish face; it was too late

to get out of his way.

"Have you seen 'The Buccaneer'?" said this licensed wag; "he's on the

warpath--hair cut and everything!"

Soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an interval

of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked down into the

street.

A carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door hung

some of those patient watchers of the London streets who spring up to

the call of light or music; their faces, pale and upturned above their

black and rusty figures, had an air of stolid watching that annoyed

Soames. Why were they allowed to hang about; why didn't the bobby move

them on?

But the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted apart

on the strip of crimson carpet stretched across the pavement; his face,

under the helmet, wore the same stolid, watching look as theirs.

Across the road, through the railings, Soames could see the branches

of trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the gleam of the

street lamps; beyond, again, the upper lights of the houses on the other

side, so many eyes looking down on the quiet blackness of the garden;

and over all, the sky, that wonderful London sky, dusted with the

innumerable reflection of countless lamps; a dome woven over between

its stars with the refraction of human needs and human fancies--immense

mirror of pomp and misery that night after night stretches its kindly

mocking over miles of houses and gardens, mansions and squalor, over

Forsytes, policemen, and patient watchers in the streets.

Soames turned away, and, hidden in the recess, gazed into the lighted

room. It was cooler out there. He saw the new arrivals, June and her

grandfather, enter. What had made them so late? They stood by the

doorway. They looked fagged. Fancy Uncle Jolyon turning out at this

time of night! Why hadn't June come to Irene, as she usually did, and

it occurred to him suddenly that he had seen nothing of June for a long

time now.