And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world-new to

him and so very old: the world, unowned, visiting the scene of its

past--went down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp. When he had drunk

it, he took out writing materials and wrote two paragraphs:

"On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James Forsyte,

in his ninety-first year. Funeral at noon on the 24th at Highgate. No

flowers by request."

"On the 20th instant at The Shelter; Mapledurham, Annette, wife of

Soames Forsyte, of a daughter." And underneath on the blottingpaper he

traced the word "son."

It was eight o'clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went across to

the house. Bushes across the river stood round and bright-coloured out

of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue and straight; and his doves

cooed, preening their feathers in the sunlight.

He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh linen and

dark clothes.

Madame Lamotte was beginning her breakfast when he went down.

She looked at his clothes, said, "Don't tell me!" and pressed his hand.

"Annette is prettee well. But the doctor say she can never have no more

children. You knew that?" Soames nodded. "It's a pity. Mais la petite

est adorable. Du cafe?"

Soames got away from her as soon as he could. She offended him--solid,

matter-of-fact, quick, clear--French. He could not bear her vowels,

her 'r's'; he resented the way she had looked at him, as if it were

his fault that Annette could never bear him a son! His fault! He even

resented her cheap adoration of the daughter he had not yet seen.

Curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child!

One would have thought he must have rushed up at the first moment. On

the contrary, he had a sort of physical shrinking from it--fastidious

possessor that he was. He was afraid of what Annette was thinking of

him, author of her agonies, afraid of the look of the baby, afraid of

showing his disappointment with the present and--the future.

He spent an hour walking up and down the drawing-room before he could

screw his courage up to mount the stairs and knock on the door of their

room.

Madame Lamotte opened it.

"Ah! At last you come! Elle vous attend!" She passed him, and Soames

went in with his noiseless step, his jaw firmly set, his eyes furtive.

Annette was very pale and very pretty lying there. The baby was hidden

away somewhere; he could not see it. He went up to the bed, and with

sudden emotion bent and kissed her forehead.




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