ey were
smiling, Soames Forsyte, silently appearing from behind the woman with
the beautiful figure, who was his wife, said:

"Ah! introduce me too!"

He was seldom, indeed, far from Irene's side at public functions, and
even when separated by the exigencies of social intercourse, could be
seen following her about with his eyes, in which were strange expressions
of watchfulness and longing.

At the window his father, James, was still scrutinizing the marks on the
piece of china.

"I wonder at Jolyon's allowing this engagement," he said to Aunt Ann.
"They tell me there's no chance of their getting married for years. This
young Bosinney" (he made the word a dactyl in opposition to general usage
of a short o) "has got nothing. When Winifred married Dartie, I made him
bring every penny into settlement--lucky thing, too--they'd ha' had
nothing by this time!"

Aunt Ann looked up from her velvet chair. Grey curls banded her
forehead, curls that, unchanged for decades, had extinguished in the
family all sense of time. She made no reply, for she rarely spoke,
husbanding her aged voice; but to James, uneasy of conscience, her look
was as good as an answer.

"Well," he said, "I couldn't help Irene's having no money. Soames was in
such a hurry; he got quite thin dancing attendance on her."

Putting the bowl pettishly down on the piano, he let his eyes wander to
the group by the door.

"It's my opinion," he said unexpectedly, "that it's just as well as it
is."

Aunt Ann did not ask him to explain this strange utterance. She knew
what he was thinking. If Irene had no money she would not be so foolish
as to do anything wrong; for they said--they said--she had been asking
for a separate room; but, of course, Soames had not....

James interrupted her reverie:

"But where," he asked, "was Timothy? Hadn't he come with them?"

Through Aunt Ann's compressed lips a tender smile forced its way:

"No, he didn't think it wise, with so much of this diphtheria about; and
he so liable to take things."

James answered:

"Well, HE takes good care of himself. I can't afford to take the care of
myself that he does."

Nor was it easy to say which, of admiration, envy, or contempt, was
dominant in that remark.

Timothy, indeed, was seldom seen. The baby of the family, a publisher by
profession, he had some years before, when business was at full tide,
scented out the stagnation which, indeed, had not yet come, but which