ch other. And the scent of festivity, the odour of flowers,
and hair, of essences that women love, rose suffocatingly in the heat of
the summer night.

Silent, with something of scorn in his smile, Soames seemed to notice
nothing; but now and again his eyes, finding that which they sought,
would fix themselves on a point in the shifting throng, and the smile
die off his lips.

He danced with no one. Some fellows danced with their wives; his sense
of 'form' had never permitted him to dance with Irene since their
marriage, and the God of the Forsytes alone can tell whether this was a
relief to him or not.

She passed, dancing with other men, her dress, iris-coloured, floating
away from her feet. She danced well; he was tired of hearing women say
with an acid smile: "How beautifully your wife dances, Mr. Forsyte--it's
quite a pleasure to watch her!" Tired of answering them with his
sidelong glance: "You think so?"

A young couple close by flirted a fan by turns, making an unpleasant
draught. Francie and one of her lovers stood near. They were talking of
love.

He heard Roger's voice behind, giving an order about supper to a
servant. Everything was very second-class! He wished that he had not
come! He had asked Irene whether she wanted him; she had answered with
that maddening smile of hers "Oh, no!"

Why had he come? For the last quarter of an hour he had not even seen
her. Here was George advancing with his Quilpish face; it was too late
to get out of his way.

"Have you seen 'The Buccaneer'?" said this licensed wag; "he's on the
warpath--hair cut and everything!"

Soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an interval
of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked down into the
street.

A carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door hung
some of those patient watchers of the London streets who spring up to
the call of light or music; their faces, pale and upturned above their
black and rusty figures, had an air of stolid watching that annoyed
Soames. Why were they allowed to hang about; why didn't the bobby move
them on?

But the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted apart
on the strip of crimson carpet stretched across the pavement; his face,
under the helmet, wore the same stolid, watching look as theirs.

Across the road, through the railings, Soames could see the branches
of trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the gleam of the
st