Out in the crowd against the railings, with his arm hooked in Annette's,

Soames waited. Yes! the Age was passing! What with this Trade Unionism,

and Labour fellows in the House of Commons, with continental fiction,

and something in the general feel of everything, not to be expressed

in words, things were very different; he recalled the crowd on Mafeking

night, and George Forsyte saying: "They're all socialists, they want our

goods." Like James, Soames didn't know, he couldn't tell--with Edward on

the throne! Things would never be as safe again as under good old Viccy!

Convulsively he pressed his young wife's arm. There, at any rate, was

something substantially his own, domestically certain again at last;

something which made property worth while--a real thing once more.

Pressed close against her and trying to ward others off, Soames was

content. The crowd swayed round them, ate sandwiches and dropped crumbs;

boys who had climbed the plane-trees chattered above like monkeys, threw

twigs and orange-peel. It was past time; they should be coming soon!

And, suddenly, a little behind them to the left, he saw a tallish man

with a soft hat and short grizzling beard, and a tallish woman in a

little round fur cap and veil. Jolyon and Irene talking, smiling at each

other, close together like Annette and himself! They had not seen him;

and stealthily, with a very queer feeling in his heart, Soames watched

those two. They looked happy! What had they come here for--inherently

illicit creatures, rebels from the Victorian ideal? What business had

they in this crowd? Each of them twice exiled by morality--making a

boast, as it were, of love and laxity! He watched them fascinated;

admitting grudgingly even with his arm thrust through Annette's

that--that she--Irene--No! he would not admit it; and he turned his eyes

away. He would not see them, and let the old bitterness, the old longing

rise up within him! And then Annette turned to him and said: "Those two

people, Soames; they know you, I am sure. Who are they?"

Soames nosed sideways.

"What people?"

"There, you see them; just turning away. They know you."

"No," Soames answered; "a mistake, my dear."

"A lovely face! And how she walk! Elle est tres distinguee!"

Soames looked then. Into his life, out of his life she had walked like

that swaying and erect, remote, unseizable; ever eluding the contact of

his soul! He turned abruptly from that receding vision of the past.

"You'd better attend," he said, "they're coming now!"

But while he stood, grasping her arm, seemingly intent on the head

of the procession, he was quivering with the sense of always missing

something, with instinctive regret that he had not got them both.




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