beauty did go--the yearning which sang
and throbbed through the golden music, stirred also in the lingering
beauty of the world that evening. And with the tip of his cork-soled,
elastic-sided boot he involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog
Balthasar, causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for though he
was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade him of the fact. When
he had finished he rubbed the place he had been scratching against his
master's calf, and settled down again with his chin over the instep of
the disturbing boot. And into old Jolyon's mind came a sudden
recollection--a face he had seen at that opera three weeks ago--Irene,
the wife of his precious nephew Soames, that man of property! Though he
had not met her since the day of the 'At Home' in his old house at
Stanhope Gate, which celebrated his granddaughter June's ill-starred
engagement to young Bosinney, he had remembered her at once, for he had
always admired her--a very pretty creature. After the death of young
Bosinney, whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard
that she had left Soames at once. Goodness only knew what she had been
doing since. That sight of her face--a side view--in the row in front,
had been literally the only reminder these three years that she was still
alive. No one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo had told him something
once--something which had upset him completely. The boy had got it from
George Forsyte, he believed, who had seen Bosinney in the fog the day he
was run over--something which explained the young fellow's distress--an
act of Soames towards his wife--a shocking act. Jo had seen her, too,
that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his
description had always lingered in old Jolyon's mind--'wild and lost' he
had called her. And next day June had gone there--bottled up her
feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her
mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished. A tragic business
altogether! One thing was certain--Soames had never been able to lay
hands on her again. And he was living at Brighton, and journeying up and
down--a fitting fate, the man of property! For when he once took a
dislike to anyone--as he had to his nephew--old Jolyon never got over it.
He remembered still the sense of relief with which he had heard the news
of Irene's disappearance. It had been shocking to think of her a
prisoner in that house to wh