The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

At her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace

overlooking the river.

"I should like to see the common people making love," she said, "it's

such fun!"

There were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day's heat,

and the air was alive with the sound of voices, coarse and loud, or soft

as though murmuring secrets.

It was not long before Winifred's better sense--she was the only Forsyte

present--secured them an empty bench. They sat down in a row. A heavy

tree spread a thick canopy above their heads, and the haze darkened

slowly over the river.

Dartie sat at the end, next to him Irene, then Bosinney, then Winifred.

There was hardly room for four, and the man of the world could feel

Irene's arm crushed against his own; he knew that she could not withdraw

it without seeming rude, and this amused him; he devised every now and

again a movement that would bring her closer still. He thought: 'That

Buccaneer Johnny shan't have it all to himself! It's a pretty tight fit,

certainly!'

From far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle of a

mandoline, and voices singing the old round:

'A boat, a boat, unto the ferry, For we'll go over and be merry; And

laugh, and quaff, and drink brown sherry!'

And suddenly the moon appeared, young and tender, floating up on her

back from behind a tree; and as though she had breathed, the air was

cooler, but down that cooler air came always the warm odour of the

limes.

Over his cigar Dartie peered round at Bosinney, who was sitting with his

arms crossed, staring straight in front of him, and on his face the look

of a man being tortured.

And Dartie shot a glance at the face between, so veiled by the

overhanging shadow that it was but like a darker piece of the darkness

shaped and breathed on; soft, mysterious, enticing.

A hush had fallen on the noisy terrace, as if all the strollers were

thinking secrets too precious to be spoken.

And Dartie thought: 'Women!'

The glow died above the river, the singing ceased; the young moon hid

behind a tree, and all was dark. He pressed himself against Irene.

He was not alarmed at the shuddering that ran through the limbs he

touched, or at the troubled, scornful look of her eyes. He felt her

trying to draw herself away, and smiled.

It must be confessed that the man of the world had drunk quite as much

as was good for him.

With thick lips parted under his well-curled moustaches, and his bold

eyes aslant upon her, he had the malicious look of a satyr.