d towards the Edgware Road, between rows of little houses, all
suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the prejudices of a Forsyte
are sacred) shady histories of some sort or kind.

Society, forsooth, the chattering hags and jackanapes--had set
themselves up to pass judgment on his flesh and blood! A parcel of old
women! He stumped his umbrella on the ground, as though to drive it into
the heart of that unfortunate body, which had dared to ostracize his son
and his son's son, in whom he could have lived again!

He stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed Society's
behaviour for fifteen years--had only today been false to it!

He thought of June, and her dead mother, and the whole story, with all
his old bitterness. A wretched business!

He was a long time reaching Stanhope Gate, for, with native perversity,
being extremely tired, he walked the whole way.

After washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to the
dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when June was
out--it was less lonely so. The evening paper had not yet come; he had
finished the Times, there was therefore nothing to do.

The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He
disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze,
travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: 'Group of
Dutch fishing boats at sunset'; the chef d'oeuvre of his collection. It
gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He was lonely! He oughtn't
to complain, he knew, but he couldn't help it: He was a poor thing--had
always been a poor thing--no pluck! Such was his thought.

The butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his master
apparently asleep, exercised extreme caution in his movements. This
bearded man also wore a moustache, which had given rise to grave doubts
in the minds of many members--of the family--, especially those who,
like Soames, had been to public schools, and were accustomed to niceness
in such matters. Could he really be considered a butler? Playful
spirits alluded to him as: 'Uncle Jolyon's Nonconformist'; George, the
acknowledged wag, had named him: 'Sankey.'

He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great
polished table inimitably sleek and soft.

Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak--he had
always thought so--who cared about nothing but rattling through his
work, and getting out to his betting or his woman