It was nearly seven when he heard her come in.
The incident of the night before had long lost its importance under
stress of anxiety at her strange sortie into the fog. But now that Irene
was home, the memory of her broken-hearted sobbing came back to him, and
he felt nervous at the thought of facing her.
She was already on the stairs; her grey fur coat hung to her knees, its
high collar almost hid her face, she wore a thick veil.
She neither turned to look at him nor spoke. No ghost or stranger could
have passed more silently.
Bilson came to lay dinner, and told him that Mrs. Forsyte was not coming
down; she was having the soup in her room.
For once Soames did not 'change'; it was, perhaps, the first time in
his life that he had sat down to dinner with soiled cuffs, and, not even
noticing them, he brooded long over his wine. He sent Bilson to light a
fire in his picture-room, and presently went up there himself.
Turning on the gas, he heaved a deep sigh, as though amongst these
treasures, the backs of which confronted him in stacks, around the
little room, he had found at length his peace of mind. He went straight
up to the greatest treasure of them all, an undoubted Turner, and,
carrying it to the easel, turned its face to the light. There had been
a movement in Turners, but he had not been able to make up his mind
to part with it. He stood for a long time, his pale, clean-shaven face
poked forward above his stand-up collar, looking at the picture as
though he were adding it up; a wistful expression came into his eyes;
he found, perhaps, that it came to too little. He took it down from
the easel to put it back against the wall; but, in crossing the room,
stopped, for he seemed to hear sobbing.
It was nothing--only the sort of thing that had been bothering him in
the morning. And soon after, putting the high guard before the blazing
fire, he stole downstairs.
Fresh for the morrow! was his thought. It was long before he went to
sleep....
It is now to George Forsyte that the mind must turn for light on the
events of that fog-engulfed afternoon.
The wittiest and most sportsmanlike of the Forsytes had passed the day
reading a novel in the paternal mansion at Princes' Gardens. Since a
recent crisis in his financial affairs he had been kept on parole by
Roger, and compelled to reside 'at home.'
Towards five o'clock he went out, and took train at South Kensington
Station (for everyone to-day went Underground). His intention was to
dine, and pass the evening playing billiards at the Red Pottle--that
unique hostel, neither club, hotel, nor good gilt restaurant.