He had become conscious of a woman and a youth standing between him and
the "Future Town." Their backs were turned; but very suddenly Soames
put his catalogue before his face, and drawing his hat forward, gazed
through the slit between. No mistaking that back, elegant as ever though
the hair above had gone grey. Irene! His divorced wife--Irene! And this,
no doubt, was--her son--by that fellow Jolyon Forsyte--their boy, six
months older than his own girl! And mumbling over in his mind the bitter
days of his divorce, he rose to get out of sight, but quickly sat down
again. She had turned her head to speak to her boy; her profile was
still so youthful that it made her grey hair seem powdery, as if
fancy-dressed; and her lips were smiling as Soames, first possessor
of them, had never seen them smile. Grudgingly he admitted her still
beautiful and in figure almost as young as ever. And how that boy smiled
back at her! Emotion squeezed Soames' heart. The sight infringed his
sense of justice. He grudged her that boy's smile--it went beyond what
Fleur gave him, and it was undeserved. Their son might have been his
son; Fleur might have been her daughter, if she had kept straight! He
lowered his catalogue. If she saw him, all the better! A reminder of
her conduct in the presence of her son, who probably knew nothing of it,
would be a salutary touch from the finger of that Nemesis which surely
must soon or late visit her! Then, half-conscious that such a thought
was extravagant for a Forsyte of his age, Soames took out his watch.
Past four! Fleur was late. She had gone to his niece Imogen Cardigan's,
and there they would keep her smoking cigarettes and gossiping, and
that. He heard the boy laugh, and say eagerly: "I say, Mum, is this by
one of Auntie June's lame ducks?"
"Paul Post--I believe it is, darling."
The word produced a little shock in Soames; he had never heard her use
it. And then she saw him. His eyes must have had in them something of
George Forsyte's sardonic look; for her gloved hand crisped the folds of
her frock, her eyebrows rose, her face went stony. She moved on.
"It is a caution," said the boy, catching her arm again.
Soames stared after them. That boy was good-looking, with a Forsyte
chin, and eyes deep-grey, deep in; but with something sunny, like a
glass of old sherry spilled over him; his smile perhaps, his hair.
Better than they deserved--those two! They passed from his view into the
next room, and Soames continued to regard the Future Town, but saw it
not. A little smile snarled up his lips. He was despising the vehemence
of his own feelings after all these years. Ghosts! And yet as one grew
old--was there anything but what was ghost-like left? Yes, there was
Fleur! He fixed his eyes on the entrance. She was due; but she would
keep him waiting, of course! And suddenly he became aware of a sort of
human breeze--a short, slight form clad in a sea-green djibbah with a
metal belt and a fillet binding unruly red-gold hair all streaked with
grey. She was talking to the Gallery attendants, and something familiar
riveted his gaze--in her eyes, her chin, her hair, her spirit--something
which suggested a thin Skye terrier just before its dinner. Surely June
Forsyte! His cousin June--and coming straight to his recess! She sat
down beside him, deep in thought, took out a tablet, and made a pencil
note. Soames sat unmoving. A confounded thing, cousinship! "Disgusting!"
he heard her murmur; then, as if resenting the presence of an
overhearing stranger, she looked at him. The worst had happened.