buffoon
George would have called him the Buccaneer--she maintained that he was
very chic.

This dictum--that Bosinney was chic--caused quit a sensation. It failed
to convince. That he was 'good-looking in a way' they were prepared to
admit, but that anyone could call a man with his pronounced cheekbones,
curious eyes, and soft felt hats chic was only another instance of
Winifred's extravagant way of running after something new.

It was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when the
very earth was extravagant, chestnut-trees spread with blossom, and
flowers drenched in perfume, as they had never been before; when roses
blew in every garden; and for the swarming stars the nights had hardly
space; when every day and all day long the sun, in full armour, swung his
brazen shield above the Park, and people did strange things, lunching and
dining in the open air. Unprecedented was the tale of cabs and carriages
that streamed across the bridges of the shining river, bearing the
upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of Bushey, Richmond,
Kew, and Hampton Court. Almost every family with any pretensions to be
of the carriage-class paid one visit that year to the horse-chestnuts at
Bushey, or took one drive amongst the Spanish chestnuts of Richmond Park.
Bowling smoothly, if dustily, along, in a cloud of their own creation,
they would stare fashionably at the antlered heads which the great slow
deer raised out of a forest of bracken that promised to autumn lovers
such cover as was never seen before. And now and again, as the amorous
perfume of chestnut flowers and of fern was drifted too near, one would
say to the other: "My dear! What a peculiar scent!"

And the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near honey-coloured.
At the corners of London squares they gave out, as the sun went down, a
perfume sweeter than the honey bees had taken--a perfume that stirred a
yearning unnamable in the hearts of Forsytes and their peers, taking the
cool after dinner in the precincts of those gardens to which they alone
had keys.

And that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of flower-beds
in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn, and turn again, as
though lovers were waiting for them--waiting for the last light to die
away under the shadow of the branches.

Some vague sympathy evoked by the scent of the limes, some sisterly
desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating the