The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

But his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he covered

his eyes with his hands....

It was late the following afternoon when Soames stood in the dining-room

window gazing gloomily into the Square.

The sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze their

gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ at the

corner. It was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out of fashion,

with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on and on, though

nothing indeed but leaves danced to the tune.

The woman did not look too gay, for she was tired; and from the tall

houses no one threw her down coppers. She moved the organ on, and three

doors off began again.

It was the waltz they had played at Roger's when Irene had danced with

Bosinney; and the perfume of the gardenias she had worn came back to

Soames, drifted by the malicious music, as it had been drifted to him

then, when she passed, her hair glistening, her eyes so soft, drawing

Bosinney on and on down an endless ballroom.

The organ woman plied her handle slowly; she had been grinding her tune

all day-grinding it in Sloane Street hard by, grinding it perhaps to

Bosinney himself.

Soames turned, took a cigarette from the carven box, and walked back to

the window. The tune had mesmerized him, and there came into his view

Irene, her sunshade furled, hastening homewards down the Square, in a

soft, rose-coloured blouse with drooping sleeves, that he did not know.

She stopped before the organ, took out her purse, and gave the woman

money.

Soames shrank back and stood where he could see into the hall.

She came in with her latch-key, put down her sunshade, and stood looking

at herself in the glass. Her cheeks were flushed as if the sun had

burned them; her lips were parted in a smile. She stretched her arms out

as though to embrace herself, with a laugh that for all the world was

like a sob.

Soames stepped forward.

"Very-pretty!" he said.

But as though shot she spun round, and would have passed him up the

stairs. He barred the way.

"Why such a hurry?" he said, and his eyes fastened on a curl of hair

fallen loose across her ear....

He hardly recognised her. She seemed on fire, so deep and rich the

colour of her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, and of the unusual blouse she

wore.

She put up her hand and smoothed back the curl. She was breathing fast

and deep, as though she had been running, and with every breath perfume

seemed to come from her hair, and from her body, like perfume from an

opening flower.