Upright conduct,
property--somehow, they were tiring; the blackbirds and the sunsets never
tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he could not get enough
of them. Staring into the stilly radiance of the early evening and at
the little gold and white flowers on the lawn, a thought came to him:
This weather was like the music of 'Orfeo,' which he had recently heard
at Covent Garden. A beautiful opera, not like Meyerbeer, nor even quite
Mozart, but, in its way, perhaps even more lovely; something classical
and of the Golden Age about it, chaste and mellow, and the Ravogli
'almost worthy of the old days'--highest praise he could bestow. The
yearning of Orpheus for the beauty he was losing, for his love going down
to Hades, as in life love and 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, s