irty.

Nothing annoyed Soames so much as cheerfulness--an indecent, extravagant
sort of quality, which had no relation to facts. The mixture of his
desires and hopes was, in a word, becoming 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 more try to break down her repugnance, her refusal to make her
own and his path comparatively smooth once more. If he failed
again--well, he would see what she did with herself, anyway!

He went to an hotel in the Rue Caumartin, highly recommended to Forsytes,
where practically nobody spoke French. He had formed no plan. He did
not want to startle her; yet must contrive that she had no chance to
evade him by flight. And next morning he set out in bright weather.

Paris had an air of gaiety, a sparkle over its star-shape which almost
annoyed Soames. He stepped gravely, his nose lifted a little sideways in
real curiosity. He desired now to understand things French. Was not
Annette French? There was much to be got out of his visit, if he could
only get it. In this laudable mood and the Place de la Concorde he was
nearly run down three times. He came on the 'Cours la Reine,' where
Irene's hotel was situated, almost too suddenly, for he had not yet fixed
on his procedure. Crossing over to the river side, he noted the building,
white and cheerful-looking, with green sunblinds, seen through a screen
of plane-tree leaves. And, conscious that it would be far better to meet
her casually in some open place than to risk a call, he sat down on a
bench whence he could watch the entrance. It was not quite eleven
o'clock, and improbable that she had yet gone out. Some pigeons were
strutting and preening their feathers in the pools of sunlight between
the shadows of the plane-trees. A workman in a blue blouse passed, and
threw them crumbs from the paper which contained his dinner. A 'bonne'
coiffed with ribbon shepherded two little girls with pig-tails and
frilled drawers. A cab meandered by, whose cocher wore a blue coat and a
black-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it all, a sort of picturesqueness which was out of date.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 foreig