The Forsyte Saga - Complete

Aged twenty-seven, just when he began to take interest in pictures, he had spent five hot weeks in Italy, looking into the Renaissance-not so much in it as he had been le

the look of the men's clothes, the closed-in cabs, the theatres which looked like bee-hives, the Galleries which smelled of beeswax. He was too cautious and too shy to explore that side of Paris supposed by Fo

ity, but the prosecution of his own legitimate affairs. He went, indeed, because things were getting past a joke. The watch went on and on, and-nothing-nothing! Jolyon had never returned to Paris, and no one else was 'suspect!' Busy with new and very confidential matters, Soames was realising more than ever how essential reputation is to a soli

g torture; and lately the thought had come to him that perhaps Irene knew she was being shadowed: It was this which finally decided him to go and see for himself; to go and once mor

obody spoke French. He had formed no plan. He did not want to startle her; yet must contrive

k-glazed hat. To Soames a kind of affectation seemed to cling about it all, a sort of picturesqueness which was out of date. A theatrical people, the French! He lit one of his rare cigarettes, with a sense of injury that Fate should be casting his life into outlandish waters. He shouldn't wonder if Irene quite enjoyed this foreign life; she had never been properly English-even to look at! And he began considering which of those windows could be hers under the green sunblinds. How could he word what he had come to say so that it might pierce the defence of her proud obstinacy? He threw the fag-end of his cigarette at a pigeon, with the thought: 'I can't stay here for ever twiddling my thumbs. Better give it up and call on her in the late afternoon.' But he still sat on, heard twelve strike, and then half-past. 'I'll wait till one,' he thought, 'while I'm about it.' But just then he started up, and shrinkingly sat down again. A woman had come out in a cream-coloured frock, and was moving away under a fawn-coloured parasol. Irene herself! He waited till she was too far away to recognise him, then set out after her. She was strolling as though she had no particular objective; moving, if he remembered rightly, toward the Bois de Boulogne. For half an hour at lea

ather a g

t she was struggling to

tartle you; is this

es

lady, strolling by, paused to lo

eyes fol

und with her parasol, "never lon

and, looking at her

n be free of it at any moment. Ire

e la

Is there any condition I can make which will bring you back to me

ng wild suddenly in

may hunt me to the gr

on edge, So

oth stood motionless, staring at the little Niobe

muttered Soames, clenching hi

ad. "I can't come

trous injustice f

all I could give you. You broke that vow without cause, you made me a by-word; you refused me a child; you'v

ce was deadly pale,

ed if you like-but not so wicked that

moved away, and seemed to lay a caress a

e Forsyte in him tremble. With a deep imprecation he strode away from where she had vanish

ith perspiration, in t

for her now; she has not a grain of it for me. I'l

in the hall of his hotel, with tourists passing every moment, Baedeker in hand, he was visited by black dejection. In irons! His whole life, with every natural instinct and every decent yearning gagged and fettered, and all because Fate had driven him seventeen years ago to set his heart upon this woman-so utterly, that even now he had no

t, he took the malicious resolution to go and dine at her hotel. If she were there, he would s

t all events. If you pursue it, understand that I will leave

. He ate little, quickly, watchfully. She did not come. He lingered in the lounge over his coffee, drank two liqueurs of brandy. But still she did not come. He went over to the keyboard and examined the names. Number twelve, on the first floor! And he determined to take the note up himself. He mounted red-carpeted stairs, past a little salon; eight-ten-twelve! Should he knock, push the note under, or...? He looked furtively

see that Mrs. Her

ur-suddenly, about three o'clock.

ips. "Oh!" he said; "do

eur. Englan

pocket and went out. He hailed a

me an

star-shaped Paris, with here and there a pause, and the question, "C'est par ici, Monsieur?" "No, go on," till the man gave it up in despair, and th

ght Soames, 'without