The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

His ability was undoubted. Raising his broken nose towards his listener,

he would add:

"For want of a few hundred of these fellows we haven't paid a dividend

for years, and look at the price of the shares. I can't get ten

shillings for them."

He had been at Yarmouth, too, and had come back feeling that he had

added at least ten years to his own life. He grasped Swithin's hand,

exclaiming in a jocular voice:

"Well, so here we are again!"

Mrs. Nicholas, an effete woman, smiled a smile of frightened jollity

behind his back.

"Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte! Mr. and Mrs. Soames Forsyte!"

Swithin drew his heels together, his deportment ever admirable.

"Well, James, well Emily! How are you, Soames? How do you do?"

His hand enclosed Irene's, and his eyes swelled. She was a pretty

woman--a little too pale, but her figure, her eyes, her teeth! Too good

for that chap Soames!

The gods had given Irene dark brown eyes and golden hair, that strange

combination, provocative of men's glances, which is said to be the

mark of a weak character. And the full, soft pallor of her neck and

shoulders, above a gold-coloured frock, gave to her personality an

alluring strangeness.

Soames stood behind, his eyes fastened on his wife's neck. The hands of

Swithin's watch, which he still held open in his hand, had left eight

behind; it was half an hour beyond his dinner-time--he had had no

lunch--and a strange primeval impatience surged up within him.

"It's not like Jolyon to be late!" he said to Irene, with uncontrollable

vexation. "I suppose it'll be June keeping him!"

"People in love are always late," she answered.

Swithin stared at her; a dusky orange dyed his cheeks.

"They've no business to be. Some fashionable nonsense!"

And behind this outburst the inarticulate violence of primitive

generations seemed to mutter and grumble.

"Tell me what you think of my new star, Uncle Swithin," said Irene

softly.

Among the lace in the bosom of her dress was shining a five-pointed

star, made of eleven diamonds. Swithin looked at the star. He had a

pretty taste in stones; no question could have been more sympathetically

devised to distract his attention.

"Who gave you that?" he asked.

"Soames."

There was no change in her face, but Swithin's pale eyes bulged as

though he might suddenly have been afflicted with insight.

"I dare say you're dull at home," he said. "Any day you like to come and

dine with me, I'll give you as good a bottle of wine as you'll get in

London."

"Miss June Forsyte--Mr. Jolyon Forsyte!... Mr. Boswainey!..."