oth despised and dreaded, as a man likely to be always
in want of money, he said nothing till dinner was announced. Soames,
too, was silent; Emily alone, a woman of cool courage, maintained a
conversation with Winifred on trivial subjects. She was never more
composed in her manner and conversation than that evening.

A decision having been come to not to speak of Irene's flight, no view
was expressed by any other member of the family as to the right course
to be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the general tone adopted
in relation to events as they afterwards turned out, that James's
advice: "Don't you listen to her, follow-her and get her back!" would,
with here and there an exception, have been regarded as sound, not only
in Park Lane, but amongst the Nicholases, the Rogers, and at Timothy's.
Just as it would surely have been endorsed by that wider body of
Forsytes all over London, who were merely excluded from judgment by
ignorance of the story.

In spite then of Emily's efforts, the dinner was served by Warmson and
the footman almost in silence. Dartie was sulky, and drank all he could
get; the girls seldom talked to each other at any time. James asked once
where June was, and what she was doing with herself in these days.
No one could tell him. He sank back into gloom. Only when Winifred
recounted how little Publius had given his bad penny to a beggar, did he
brighten up.

"Ah!" he said, "that's a clever little chap. I don't know what'll become
of him, if he goes on like this. An intelligent little chap, I call
him!" But it was only a flash.

The courses succeeded one another solemnly, under the electric light,
which glared down onto the table, but barely reached the principal
ornament of the walls, a so-called 'Sea Piece by Turner,' almost
entirely composed of cordage and drowning men.

Champagne was handed, and then a bottle of James' prehistoric port, but
as by the chill hand of some skeleton.

At ten o'clock Soames left; twice in reply to questions, he had said
that Irene was not well; he felt he could no longer trust himself. His
mother kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he pressed her hand, a
flush of warmth in his cheeks. He walked away in the cold wind, which
whistled desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of
clear steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty
greeting, nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the
night-women hurrying in their