The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

James did not know what on earth to answer.

The bright hot morning had changed slowly to a grey, oppressive

afternoon; a heavy bank of clouds, with the yellow tinge of coming

thunder, had risen in the south, and was creeping up.

The branches of the trees dropped motionless across the road without the

smallest stir of foliage. A faint odour of glue from the heated horses

clung in the thick air; the coachman and groom, rigid and unbending,

exchanged stealthy murmurs on the box, without ever turning their heads.

To James' great relief they reached the house at last; the silence and

impenetrability of this woman by his side, whom he had always thought so

soft and mild, alarmed him.

The carriage put them down at the door, and they entered.

The hall was cool, and so still that it was like passing into a tomb;

a shudder ran down James's spine. He quickly lifted the heavy leather

curtains between the columns into the inner court.

He could not restrain an exclamation of approval.

The decoration was really in excellent taste. The dull ruby tiles that

extended from the foot of the walls to the verge of a circular clump

of tall iris plants, surrounding in turn a sunken basin of white marble

filled with water, were obviously of the best quality. He admired

extremely the purple leather curtains drawn along one entire side,

framing a huge white-tiled stove. The central partitions of the skylight

had been slid back, and the warm air from outside penetrated into the

very heart of the house.

He stood, his hands behind him, his head bent back on his high, narrow

shoulders, spying the tracery on the columns and the pattern of the

frieze which ran round the ivory-coloured walls under the gallery.

Evidently, no pains had been spared. It was quite the house of a

gentleman. He went up to the curtains, and, having discovered how they

were worked, drew them asunder and disclosed the picture-gallery, ending

in a great window taking up the whole end of the room. It had a black

oak floor, and its walls, again, were of ivory white. He went on

throwing open doors, and peeping in. Everything was in apple-pie order,

ready for immediate occupation.

He turned round at last to speak to Irene, and saw her standing over in

the garden entrance, with her husband and Bosinney.

Though not remarkable for sensibility, James felt at once that something

was wrong. He went up to them, and, vaguely alarmed, ignorant of the

nature of the trouble, made an attempt to smooth things over.

"How are you, Mr. Bosinney?" he said, holding out his hand. "You've been

spending money pretty freely down here, I should say!"