The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

June stopped her at once.

"All right, Bilson," she said, "I'll just go in. You, needn't hurry Mrs.

Soames."

She took off her cloak, and Bilson, with an understanding look, did not

even open the drawing-room door for her, but ran downstairs.

June paused for a moment to look at herself in the little old-fashioned

silver mirror above the oaken rug chest--a slim, imperious young figure,

with a small resolute face, in a white frock, cut moon-shaped at the

base of a neck too slender for her crown of twisted red-gold hair.

She opened the drawing-room door softly, meaning to take him by

surprise. The room was filled with a sweet hot scent of flowering

azaleas.

She took a long breath of the perfume, and heard Bosinney's voice, not

in the room, but quite close, saying.

"Ah! there were such heaps of things I wanted to talk about, and now we

shan't have time!"

Irene's voice answered: "Why not at dinner?"

"How can one talk...."

June's first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to the long

window opening on the little court. It was from there that the scent

of the azaleas came, and, standing with their backs to her, their faces

buried in the golden-pink blossoms, stood her lover and Irene.

Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the girl

watched.

"Come on Sunday by yourself--We can go over the house together."

June saw Irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms. It was not

the look of a coquette, but--far worse to the watching girl--of a woman

fearful lest that look should say too much.

"I've promised to go for a drive with Uncle...."

"The big one! Make him bring you; it's only ten miles--the very thing

for his horses."

"Poor old Uncle Swithin!"

A wave of the azalea scent drifted into June's face; she felt sick and

dizzy.

"Do! ah! do!"

"But why?"

"I must see you there--I thought you'd like to help me...."

The answer seemed to the girl to come softly with a tremble from amongst

the blossoms: "So I do!"

And she stepped into the open space of the window.

"How stuffy it is here!" she said; "I can't bear this scent!"

Her eyes, so angry and direct, swept both their faces.

"Were you talking about the house? I haven't seen it yet, you

know--shall we all go on Sunday?"'

From Irene's face the colour had flown.

"I am going for a drive that day with Uncle Swithin," she answered.

"Uncle Swithin! What does he matter? You can throw him over!"

"I am not in the habit of throwing people over!"