He passed through the first of the two rooms in the Gallery. There was
certainly a body of work! And now that the fellow was dead it did not
seem so trivial. The drawings were pleasing enough, with quite a sense
of atmosphere, and something individual in the brush work. 'His father
and my father; he and I; his child and mine!' thought Soames. So it had
gone on! And all about that woman! Softened by the events of the past
week, affected by the melancholy beauty of the autumn day, Soames came
nearer than he had ever been to realisation of that truth--passing the
understanding of a Forsyte pure--that the body of Beauty has a spiritual
essence, uncapturable save by a devotion which thinks not of self. After
all, he was near that truth in his devotion to his daughter; perhaps
that made him understand a little how he had missed the prize. And
there, among the drawings of his kinsman, who had attained to that
which he had found beyond his reach, he thought of him and her with a
tolerance which surprised him. But he did not buy a drawing.
Just as he passed the seat of custom on his return to the outer air he
met with a contingency which had not been entirely absent from his mind
when he went into the Gallery--Irene, herself, coming in. So she had not
gone yet, and was still paying farewell visits to that fellow's remains!
He subdued the little involuntary leap of his subconsciousness, the
mechanical reaction of his senses to the charm of this once-owned woman,
and passed her with averted eyes. But when he had gone by he could not
for the life of him help looking back. This, then, was finality--the
heat and stress of his life, the madness and the longing thereof, the
only defeat he had known, would be over when she faded from his view
this time; even such memories had their own queer aching value.
She, too, was looking back. Suddenly she lifted her gloved hand, her
lips smiled faintly, her dark eyes seemed to speak. It was the turn of
Soames to make no answer to that smile and that little farewell wave;
he went out into the fashionable street quivering from head to foot. He
knew what she had meant to say: "Now that I am going for ever out of
the reach of you and yours--forgive me; I wish you well." That was the
meaning; last sign of that terrible reality--passing morality, duty,
common sense--her aversion from him who had owned her body, but had
never touched her spirit or her heart. It hurt; yes--more than if she
had kept her mask unmoved, her hand unlifted.