His ability was undoubted. Raising his broken nose towards his listener,
he would add:
"For want of a few hundred of these fellows we haven't paid a dividend
for years, and look at the price of the shares. I can't get ten
shillings for them."
He had been at Yarmouth, too, and had come back feeling that he had
added at least ten years to his own life. He grasped Swithin's hand,
exclaiming in a jocular voice:
"Well, so here we are again!"
Mrs. Nicholas, an effete woman, smiled a smile of frightened jollity
behind his back.
"Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte! Mr. and Mrs. Soames Forsyte!"
Swithin drew his heels together, his deportment ever admirable.
"Well, James, well Emily! How are you, Soames? How do you do?"
His hand enclosed Irene's, and his eyes swelled. She was a pretty
woman--a little too pale, but her figure, her eyes, her teeth! Too good
for that chap Soames!
The gods had given Irene dark brown eyes and golden hair, that strange
combination, provocative of men's glances, which is said to be the
mark of a weak character. And the full, soft pallor of her neck and
shoulders, above a gold-coloured frock, gave to her personality an
alluring strangeness.
Soames stood behind, his eyes fastened on his wife's neck. The hands of
Swithin's watch, which he still held open in his hand, had left eight
behind; it was half an hour beyond his dinner-time--he had had no
lunch--and a strange primeval impatience surged up within him.
"It's not like Jolyon to be late!" he said to Irene, with uncontrollable
vexation. "I suppose it'll be June keeping him!"
"People in love are always late," she answered.
Swithin stared at her; a dusky orange dyed his cheeks.
"They've no business to be. Some fashionable nonsense!"
And behind this outburst the inarticulate violence of primitive
generations seemed to mutter and grumble.
"Tell me what you think of my new star, Uncle Swithin," said Irene
softly.
Among the lace in the bosom of her dress was shining a five-pointed
star, made of eleven diamonds. Swithin looked at the star. He had a
pretty taste in stones; no question could have been more sympathetically
devised to distract his attention.
"Who gave you that?" he asked.
"Soames."
There was no change in her face, but Swithin's pale eyes bulged as
though he might suddenly have been afflicted with insight.
"I dare say you're dull at home," he said. "Any day you like to come and
dine with me, I'll give you as good a bottle of wine as you'll get in
London."
"Miss June Forsyte--Mr. Jolyon Forsyte!... Mr. Boswainey!..."