The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

At five o'clock the following day old Jolyon sat alone, a cigar between

his lips, and on a table by his side a cup of tea. He was tired, and

before he had finished his cigar he fell asleep. A fly settled on his

hair, his breathing sounded heavy in the drowsy silence, his upper lip

under the white moustache puffed in and out. From between the fingers

of his veined and wrinkled hand the cigar, dropping on the empty hearth,

burned itself out.

The gloomy little study, with windows of stained glass to exclude the

view, was full of dark green velvet and heavily-carved mahogany--a suite

of which old Jolyon was wont to say: 'Shouldn't wonder if it made a big

price some day!'

It was pleasant to think that in the after life he could get more for

things than he had given.

In the rich brown atmosphere peculiar to back rooms in the mansion of

a Forsyte, the Rembrandtesque effect of his great head, with its white

hair, against the cushion of his high-backed seat, was spoiled by the

moustache, which imparted a somewhat military look to his face. An old

clock that had been with him since before his marriage forty years ago

kept with its ticking a jealous record of the seconds slipping away

forever from its old master.

He had never cared for this room, hardly going into it from one year's

end to another, except to take cigars from the Japanese cabinet in the

corner, and the room now had its revenge.

His temples, curving like thatches over the hollows beneath, his

cheek-bones and chin, all were sharpened in his sleep, and there had

come upon his face the confession that he was an old man.

He woke. June had gone! James had said he would be lonely. James had

always been a poor thing. He recollected with satisfaction that he had

bought that house over James's head.

Serve him right for sticking at the price; the only thing the fellow

thought of was money. Had he given too much, though? It wanted a lot of

doing to--He dared say he would want all his money before he had

done with this affair of June's. He ought never to have allowed the

engagement. She had met this Bosinney at the house of Baynes, Baynes and

Bildeboy, the architects. He believed that Baynes, whom he knew--a bit

of an old woman--was the young man's uncle by marriage. After that she'd

been always running after him; and when she took a thing into her head

there was no stopping her. She was continually taking up with 'lame

ducks' of one sort or another. This fellow had no money, but she must

needs become engaged to him--a harumscarum, unpractical chap, who would

get himself into no end of difficulties.